happiest man in the United States. I--I did
everything you said, you know, and I was dumfounded at my own success.
S-s-she loves me, Westoby."

I gazed inquiringly at the dress-suit case.

"We don't belong to any common Joneses. We're Connecticut Joneses. In
fact, we're the only Joneses--and the name is as dear to me, as sacred,
as I suppose that of Westoby is, perhaps, to you. And yet--and yet--do
you know what she actually said to me? Said to me, holding my hand, and,
and--that the only thing she didn't like about me was my _name_."

I contrived to get out, "Good heavens!" with the proper astonishment.

"I told her that Van Coort didn't strike me as being anything very
extra."

"Wouldn't it have been wiser to--?"

"Oh, for myself, I'd do anything in the world for her. But a fellow has
to show a little decent pride. A fellow owes something to his family,
doesn't he? As a man I love the ground she walks on; as a Jones--well,
if she feels like that about it--I told her she had better wait for a De
Montmorency."

"But she didn't say she wouldn't marry you, did she?"

"N-o-o-o!"

"She didn't ask you to _change_ your name, did she?"

"N-o-o-o!"

"And do you mean to say that just for one unfortunate remark--a remark
that any one might have made in the agitation of the moment--you're
deliberately turning your back on her, and her broken heart!"

"Oh, she's red-hot, too, you know, over what I said about the Van
Coorts."

"She couldn't have realized that you belonged to the Connecticut
Joneses. _I_ didn't know it. _I_--"

"Well, it's all off now," he said.

It was a mile to the depot. For Jones it was a mile of reproaches,
scoldings, lectures and insults. For myself I shall ever remember it as
the mile of my life. I pleaded, argued, extenuated and explained. My
lifelong happiness--Freddy--the Seventy-second Street house--were
walking away from me in the dark while I jerked unavailingly at Jones'
coat-tails. The whole outfit disappeared into a car, leaving me on the
platform with the ashes of my hopes. Of all obstinate, mulish,
pig-headed, copper-riveted--

I was lucky enough to find Eleanor crying softly to herself in a corner
of the veranda. The sight of her tears revived my fainting courage. I
thought of Bruce and the spider, and waded in.

"Eleanor," I said, "I've just been seeing poor Jones off."

She sobbed out something to the effect that she didn't care.

"No, you can't care very much," I said,