her. "Can't you pin it in somewhere?" Mrs. Falconer laughed and
thrust the carnation into her bodice.

"I dressed to-day, more or less," Mr. Bulstrode confessed, "in order to
attend--well, what shall I call it--a betrothal? That's a good
old-fashioned word."

"Oh!" exclaimed the lady, "a _fiancailles_?"

"Yes."

The two had wandered slowly along, out of the Bosquet towards the
canals.

"They make a great deal of these functions in France," Mrs. Falconer
said.

Her companion agreed. "They made a great deal, rather more than usual,
out of this one." And his tone was so suggestive that his companion
looked up at him quickly.

"Who _are_ your mysterious lovers?" she asked, "are they French? Do I
know them?"

"They are not in the least mysterious," Bulstrode assured her. "I
never saw anything less complex and more simple. They are Americans."

She seemed now to understand that she was to hear of "one of Jimmy's
adventures," as she called his dashes in other people's affairs.

"I hope, Jimmy, in this case, that you have pulled the affair off to
your credit, and that if you have made a match the creatures will be
grateful to you for once! And, by the way," she bethought; "whatever
has happened to the pretty girl whom you were quixotic enough to think
you had to marry?"

"The last time I saw her she appeared to be in the best of
circumstances," Bulstrode answered cheerfully. "In point of fact--it
was, singularly enough, to _her_ engagement party that I went to-day!"

And Mrs. Falconer now showed real interest and feeling. "No! how
delightful. So she is really off your hands, Jimmy. Well, that is too
good to be true. There's one at least whom you don't have to marry,
Jimmy!"

"Oh, they grow beautifully less," he agreed.

Mrs. Falconer smiled softly.

"They are narrowing down every year," Jimmy went on; "when I am about
sixty the number will be reduced, I dare say, to the proper quantity."

"What a goose you are," she said jestingly. "What a tease and a bother
you are, Jimmy Bulstrode; _I'll_ find you a proper wife!"

He accepted warmly. "Do, do! I leave myself quite in your hands."

His companion extended him her hand as she spoke, and after lifting it
to his lips, Bulstrode drew it through his arm. It was clothed in a
glove of pale coffee-color suede. It was a soft, dear hand, and rested
as if it were at home on Bulstrode's gray sleeve. Side by side the two
friends walked slowly out