d the floor. The idea was
preposterous. Still--he smiled--it was filled with amusing
possibilities. Too bad he must put it forever away and settle down to
this stupid work!

Forever away? Well--

On the next morning, which was Saturday, West did not breakfast at the
Carlton. The girl, however, did. As she and her father sat down the old
man said: "I see you've got your Daily Mail."

"Of course!" she answered. "I couldn't do without it. Grapefruit--yes."

She began to read. Presently her cheeks flushed and she put the paper
down.

"What is it?" asked the Texas statesman.

"To-day," she answered sternly, "you do the British Museum. You've put
it off long enough."

The old man sighed. Fortunately he did not ask to see the Mail. If he
had, a quarter way down the column of personal notices he would have
been enraged--or perhaps only puzzled--to read:

CARLTON RESTAURANT: Nine A.M. Friday morning. Will the young woman who
preferred grapefruit to strawberries permit the young man who had two
plates of the latter to say he will not rest until he discovers some
mutual friend, that they may meet and laugh over this column together?

Lucky for the young man who liked strawberries that his nerve had failed
him and he was not present at the Carlton that morning! He would
have been quite overcome to see the stern uncompromising look on the
beautiful face of a lady at her grapefruit. So overcome, in fact, that
he would probably have left the room at once, and thus not seen the
mischievous smile that came in time to the lady's face--not seen that
she soon picked up the paper again and read, with that smile, to the end
of the column.

CHAPTER II

The next day was Sunday; hence it brought no Mail. Slowly it dragged
along. At a ridiculously early hour Monday morning Geoffrey West was on
the street, seeking his favorite newspaper. He found it, found the Agony
Column--and nothing else. Tuesday morning again he rose early, still
hopeful. Then and there hope died. The lady at the Carlton deigned no
reply.

Well, he had lost, he told himself. He had staked all on this one bold
throw; no use. Probably if she thought of him at all it was to label him
a cheap joker, a mountebank of the halfpenny press. Richly he deserved
her scorn.

On Wednesday he slept late. He was in no haste to look into the Daily
Mail; his disappointments of the previous days had been too keen. At
last, while he was shaving, he summoned Walters, the car