d see
how we stand. I wish you to help me.

The situation is slightly less complicated. It is settled that I am in
love with Grace Harding. What's that? "_We_ are in love with Grace
Harding," you say. Very well, old fellow, have it your own way. You are
the only one in the world with whom I shall refuse to become jealous.
They say that two heads are better than one, even if one is a
blockhead--meaning me, of course.

_We_ are in love with Grace Harding. Well, what if I did say it
before? I like to keep on saying it. It's the best thing I have written
since I started this stupid diary. _We_ are in love with Grace
Harding.

When you come to think of it, John, we cannot take any great amount of
credit for that. It is not startling, and I'm awfully afraid it is not
original. Now, as I look at it, it would be much more remarkable if I--I
beg your pardon, John Henry Smith--it would be much more remarkable if
we were _not_ in love with Grace Harding. Did you ever think of that?

Falling in love with Grace Harding was the easiest thing we ever did,
Smith, and you know it. We are entitled to no more credit for it than
for admiring one of those glorious sunsets, when the eye is ravished by
blended and ever-changing tints of cloud, sky, and enchanted landscape.
We do not boast, Smith, that we love the songs of the birds, or the
graceful bend of the willow as it yields to the summer's breeze; we do
not call attention to our worship of the early morn, when the dew
sparkles like swarming diamonds on grass and flower, and bridal veils of
mist float over the breasts of the hills.

We loved her, Smith, from the moment she dawned upon us the day her
father made that wonderful drive. We loved her while she was playing
that first game of golf--and now we can talk frankly with each other, I
will confess I never saw a woman play worse than she did that day. But
the fact that our admiration grew during every moment of that weird and
wonderful exhibition of how not to hit a ball, proves we were in love.
You never denied it, you say? I know you didn't; and it's to your
credit.

But does she love us, Smith? You don't know? Of course you don't know,
but what do you think about it? You hope, she does, you say. Smith
you're as stupid as I am! Certainly you hope she does, and so do I, but
have you any reason to believe she does? Why don't you say something?

"She is pleasant to us, smiles at us, and seems to enjoy our society,"
you say. Wel