art welled to my lips at my companion's fervor. He however,
ashamed as it were at the extravagance into which he had been betrayed,
turned the conversation with some careless jest, and for the rest of the
afternoon talked a badinage that did not deceive me.

"At least, let me say that I am very sorry you are worried," I added.

In the indulgence of his subsequent gayety, I noticed that Mr. Prime
seemed to play the dandy more consummately than usual, as though he were
reflecting that come what might he would go down as he had declared,
with a smile on his face and a flawless coat on his back. I had never
known him to be more amusing and nonchalant than in the half hour which
followed his previous outburst. When we reached a flower-stand at the
corner of the streets where our ways divided, he asked me to wait a
minute, and, selecting a boutoniere and a beautiful white rose, he
presented the latter to me.

"You have saved me from much weariness during the past two months, Miss
Bailey," he said. "This flower may brighten the dinginess of your
lodgings."

Alice Bailey was the name by which I was known to Mr. Prime. I was free
to take his words in any sense I chose, and believe that they had
reference to my work at the office or to my companionship, or to both.
In acknowledgment of his politeness I dropped a little curtsy, as I
might have done to any one of my real acquaintances on a similar
occasion; and as I did so, I noticed that he regarded me with a strange
look of admiration.

"You did that," said he, "as if you had never done anything else; and
yet, I dare say you were never in a ball-room in your life."

"Never," I answered with a smile.

"Adaptiveness, that is the word. Our people are so adaptive. But there
is something about you that puzzles me more every day, Miss Bailey.
Excuse my detaining you, but I am in a philosophical vein for the moment
and need an audience. I would walk home with you, but you have always
forbidden me that pleasure. Frankly, you have puzzled me; and that
curtsy caps the climax. There are certain things adaptiveness cannot
accomplish, and that is one of them."

"Have you no faith in the child of Nature?" I asked archly.

"I had none in that sense a few moments ago, but all my theories are
falling to the ground. Forbear though, Miss Bailey," he said with a
sudden air of sportive mystery, "you cannot afford to ruin your chances
of success for the sake of a merely ornamental gift. You