h a man
with her nose and get away with it," he said irrelevantly. "You have
the most eloquent little nose, Sophy!"

I looked at him reprovingly.

"I adore being engaged to you, Sophy," said he, unabashed. "Being
engaged to you has a naive freshness that enchants me. It's
romantic, it has the sharp tang of uncertainty, the zest of high
adventure. Think how exciting it's going to be to wake o' mornings
thinking: 'Here is a whole magic day to be engaged to Sophy in!' By
the way, would you mind addressing me as 'Nicholas'? It is customary
under the circumstances, I believe."

"I do not like the name of Nicholas."

"I feared so, seeing the extreme care with which you avoid it. That
is why I suggest that you should immediately begin to use it.
Practice makes perfect. Observe with what ease I manage to say
'Sophy' already," he said airily. "I'm glad your hair's just that
blonde, and soft, Sophy. I couldn't possibly be engaged to a woman
who didn't have hair like yours."

I looked at his, and said with conviction:

"How absurd! Black hair is incomparably more beautiful!"

His eyes danced.

"Sophy!" said he, in a thrilling whisper, "Sophy, _The Author's hair
is brindle_!"

I got up and incontinently left him. And I saw with stern joy how
Mrs. Scarboro again seized upon and made him listen to tales of his
grandfather, until in desperation he fled to the piano, and played
Hungarian music with such effect that even The Author was moved to
rapture.

"Jelnik!" said The Author, enthusiastically, "I shall put you in my
next book. Gad, man, what a magnificent scoundrel I shall make of
you!" A remark which scandalized Mrs. Scarboro and startled my dear
old lady, but didn't phase Mr. Jelnik.

I found myself growing more and more confounded and confused. Was I,
or wasn't I, engaged to a man who had never asked me to marry him?
In the vernacular, I didn't know where I was at any more.

Alicia added to this confusion.

"Sophy," said she, some time later, "isn't it just possible you
misunderstood Mr. Jelnik? About his being in love with somebody
else, I mean."

"I don't know what makes you think so."

"Don't you? I'll show you," she said, and swung me around to face a
mirror. "_That's_ what makes me think so. Sophy Smith, unless he's a
liar--and Peacocks and Ivory couldn't be a liar to save his
life--the woman Nicholas Jelnik loves looks back at you every time
you look in the glass."

I shook my head. I have never bee