ery fair idea of what I am doing. But if
you care for an extra sheet for yourself--now and then--"

"An extra sheet! When I am in the mood I am likely to write a dozen
sheets to you. When I'm not, a page will be all you'll care to read.
Will you agree to the most erratic correspondence you ever had, with the
most erratic fellow?"

"It sounds very promising," she answered, smiling.

The train drew into the city station. The stop was a short one, for the
Limited was late. In the rush of outgoing and incoming passengers
Burns managed, for the space of sixty seconds, to get out of range of
Pauline's ears.

"I shall count the hours till I get that first letter," said he.

She looked up. "You surely don't expect a letter till you have sent
one?"

He laughed. "I'm going home to begin to write it now," he said.

Pauline accompanied him to the vestibule where he shook hands with her
forgivingly. From the platform he secured a last glimpse of the other
face, which gave him a friendly smile as he saluted with his dusty
leather cap held out toward her at the length of his arm. When he could
no longer see her he drew a gusty sigh and turned away.

As he stood at the street entrance of the big station, waiting for
Johnny Caruthers and the Green Imp, this is what he was saying to
himself:

"Red, you've made more than one woman unhappy, to say nothing of
yourself, by making love to her because she was a beauty and your head
swam. This time you've tried rather hard to do her the justice to wait
till you know. Only time and absence can settle that. Remember you found
a nest of gray hairs in your red pate this morning? That should show
that you're gaining wisdom at last, the salt in the red pepper, 'the
seasoning of time,' eh, R. P.? But by the rate of my pulse at this
present moment I'm inclined to believe--it's going to be a bit hard to
write an absolutely sane letter. Perhaps it would be safer if I knew
Pauline Pry would see it! I'll try to write as if I knew she would....
But by the spark I thought I saw in those black eyes I don't really
imagine Pauline will!"

CHAPTER IX. IN WHICH HE SUFFERS A DEFEAT

The hands of the office clock were pointing to half after two, on a
certain September night, when Burns came into his office, alone. The
fire in the office fireplace, kept bright until nearly midnight, when
his housekeeper had given up waiting for him and gone to bed, had burned
to a few smouldering lumps of canne