Mr. Wilson shook his head. “No; upon my soul, I’ve done nothing but tell her how I—how I was looking forward to—oh, hang it, Belmore, the letters have been all right, I know that.”

“H’m,” said Mr. Belmore, “there’s got to be something back of it, you know. Seen any girls since you’ve been gone?”

Mr. Wilson hastened to shake his head more emphatically than before. “Not one,” he asseverated, with the relief of complete innocence. “Didn’t even meet a soul I knew, except Brower—you remember Dick Brower? I went into a jeweller’s to get my glasses mended, and found him buying a souvenir spoon for his fiancée.”

“O—o—h!” said Mr. Belmore intelligently, “and did you buy a present for Edith?”

“No, I didn’t. She made me promise not to buy anything more for her; she thinks I’m spending too much money, and that I ought to economise.”

“And did you tell her about Brower?”

“Why, of course I did—as we were coming out this morning.”

Mr. Wilson stared blankly at his friend.

“Chump!” said Mr. Belmore. He bit off the end of a new cigar and threw it away. “Wilson, my poor fellow, you’re so besotted in ignorance that I don’t know how to let the light in on you. A man is a fool by the side of his fiancée, anyhow.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” said the bewildered Wilson stiffly. ‘I don’t know what I’m to do.”

“No, of course you don’t—but Edith does—you can just trust her for that. A girl always knows what a man ought to do—she can give him cards and spades and beat him every time.”

“Then why doesn’t she tell me what she wants? I asked her to, particularly.”

“Oh, no! She’ll tell you everything the opposite—that is, half the time. She’ll put every obstacle possible in your way, to see if you’re man enough to walk over’em; that’s what she wants to find out; if you’re man enough to have your own way in spite of her; and, of course, if you aren’t, you’re an awful disappointment.”

“Are you sure?” said Mr. Wilson deeply, after an awestruck pause. “Half the time, you say. But how am I to find out when she means—I give you my word, Belmore, that I thought—I suppose I could have brought her a small present, anyway, in spite of what she said; a souvenir spoon—but she hates souvenir spoons.”

“You’ll have to cipher it out for yourself, old man,” said Mr. Belmore. “I don’t set out to interpret any woman’s moods. I only give you cold, bare facts. But if I were you,” he added impartially, “I’d go down after a while and try and get her alone, you know, and say something. You can, if you try.” A swish of skirts outside of the open door made Mr. Wilson jump forward as Mrs. Belmore came in sight with her friend. The latter had her arm around the older woman, and her form drooped toward her as they passed the two men. The eyes of the girl were red, and her lips had a patient quiver. Mr. Wilson gave an exclamation and sprang forward as she disappeared in the farther room.

It was some hours later that the husband and wife met unexpectedly upon the stairs with a glad surprise.

“You don’t mean to say it’s you—alone!” he whispered.