gether. Daniel voiced their mutual thought.

"And Miss Jacqueline?" he queried boldly, with the air of meaning to
persist, no matter what happened.

Driscoll showed weariness, anger.

"And Miss Burt?" he parried.

"She won't desert, I told you once."

"You mean that she's going to Paris too? I say, Shanks, they're leaving
to-morrow."

Shanks knew that much, quite well enough.

"Have you _tried_ to stop her?" he demanded sternly.

Driscoll only looked disgusted.

"But have you--_asked_ her?"

Driscoll's head jerked a nod, of wrath ascending.

The inquisitor wisely swerved. What her answer had been was, to say the
least, palpable. But her reason for it was _the_ question with
Daniel.

"Is it," he pursued, "is it because she hasn't any dot? You know, Jack,
that in France, when a young lady----"

"No, it's not that. I know it's not."

"Oh ho," said Daniel, "so you've been guessing too! And how many guesses
did she give you? No, let me try just a few more. It ain't because,
because she's an aristocrat?"

"But I _want_ an aristocrat," cried the young Missourian, "one to
her finger tips, enough of one to be above aristocracy. And _she_
is."

"Then," said his friend in despair, "it's because she don't, just simply
don't care for you?"

"You're a long time finding that out."

"What! You don't mean----"

"Fact," said Driscoll. "Even I guessed it at last. I told her I had been
reckoning that she----"

"Cared, yes?"

Driscoll made a wry face. "And she said I mustn't jump at conclusions, I
might scare 'em."

The Troubadour chuckled heartlessly. Neither was Driscoll's sense of
humor entirely gone.

"'Oh, awful goddess! ever dreadful maid!'" Mr. Boone quoted.

"She's sure a wonder," the other owned gloomily.

"And you are a blind dunce, Jack."

"Don't talk axioms at me," said Driscoll, with a warning light in his
eye. "I don't need 'em."

"Well, now," drawled Mr. Boone, "I can't help it if I associate with you
any longer, so I'll just mosey round to the flower market. As they leave
to-morrow, they'll be wanting some violets."

And he went, and Din Driscoll sat down again and hated him.

Daniel wended his way slowly, an attenuated ranger in gray mid carriages
and blanketed forms. "Sho'", he mused, "that girl's heart is fair
bleeding for him, can't _I_ see! Her eye-lashes, they're
_wet_, every now _and_ then. And whatever the matter with her
is, it's nothing. But nothing is the very darndest thin