zest.

"She writes a neat hand after all," he murmured, as he scanned the
superscription. A bad sign that. A man in love should be the last person
to ask for an opinion of the handwriting of his sweetheart. When he can
speak with deliberation on the subject or think of it with detachment,
he has become critical, and the end--happy or otherwise--is not far off.
Happy only if there is still time or courage to draw back.

"She writes a neat hand after all," said Henry, as he rammed his finger
into the flap of the scented envelope and burst it open. "After all!"
These even more than the words preceding them were suggestive.

The hour was late, and who knows but that may, to some extent, have been
responsible for the blinking mood in which the young man read his
sweetheart's letter? It was the typical feminine scrawl, chiefly chatter
about society doings in Laysford.

"Oh, I'm becoming quite a giddy girl, dearest, and me engaged.
It's too awful. Just fancy, I've been to three
functions--_three_! Poor me that used to go nowhere at all. The
Mellises' garden party was a very swell affair. I was there
because I teach the daughter the pianoforte--and a silly thing
she is. But--_don't_ be angry now, Hal--who do you think took me
to the Mayor's reception? Why, that terrible goose, Mr.
Trentham, the Mayor's secretary. You remember him? Short, stout,
fair moustache, but _always_ well dressed. Fancies himself,
_rather_. He has asked me to go with him to another reception,
when some sort of conference comes to Laysford. I don't know
what it is, but the receptions are all right. Lots of fun and
the best of everything. Perhaps you wouldn't like me to go,
dearest? But really you needn't be _jealous_. Trentham is
_really_ a goose. Only one is so dull, and then _everybody_
knows I'm engaged."

Henry knew, certainly; and he had no doubt the "everybody" was not
unjustified. He accepted the information without a pang of jealousy.

"Everybody knows I'm engaged." Somehow, he would not readily have
confessed to delight in the fact. Trentham he did not recall as
suggestive of the ungainly biped. "Rather a decent sort of chap,"
thought Henry. "Not much in Flo's way, I imagine." He blinked through
the remainder of the letter, never dreaming--though near to
dreamtime--that Trentham was wondering what Flo could see in Henry
Charles. The man who can divine just why another man loves