may be. I did not condemn him through
hearsay or doubtful evidence, and that is why I made no charge. But,
since he persists in hearing what he already well knows, you may convey
the matter.

"Tell him that I entered the conservatory that evening from the rear,
to cut a rose for my mother. Tell him I saw him and Miss Ashburton
beneath the pink oleander. The tableau was pretty, but the pose and
juxtaposition were too eloquent and evident to require explanation. I
left the conservatory, and, at the same time, the rose and my ideal.
You may carry that song and dance to your impresario."

"I'm shy on one word, lady. Jux--jux--put me wise on dat, will yer?"

"Juxtaposition--or you may call it propinquity--or, if you like, being
rather too near for one maintaining the position of an ideal."

The gravel spun from beneath the boy's feet. He stood by the other
bench. The man's eyes interrogated him, hungrily. The boy's were shining
with the impersonal zeal of the translator.

"De lady says dat she's on to de fact dat gals is dead easy when a
feller comes spielin' ghost stories and tryin' to make up, and dat's
why she won't listen to no soft-soap. She says she caught yer dead to
rights, huggin' a bunch o' calico in de hot-house. She side-stepped in
to pull some posies and yer was squeezin' de oder gal to beat de band.
She says it looked cute, all right all right, but it made her sick. She
says yer better git busy, and make a sneak for de train."

The young man gave a low whistle and his eyes flashed with a sudden
thought. His hand flew to the inside pocket of his coat, and drew out a
handful of letters. Selecting one, he handed it to the boy, following it
with a silver dollar from his vest-pocket.

"Give that letter to the lady," he said, "and ask her to read it. Tell
her that it should explain the situation. Tell her that, if she had
mingled a little trust with her conception of the ideal, much heartache
might have been avoided. Tell her that the loyalty she prizes so much
has never wavered. Tell her I am waiting for an answer."

The messenger stood before the lady.

"De gent says he's had de ski-bunk put on him widout no cause. He says
he's no bum guy; and, lady, yer read dat letter, and I'll bet yer he's
a white sport, all right."

The young lady unfolded the letter; somewhat doubtfully, and read it.

DEAR DR. ARNOLD: I want to thank you for your most kind and
opportune aid to my daughter last Friday evenin