d into trying to make him notice
her, which old stupid Artie refused to do, but tagged around after
Flora as if she had hypnotized him. Then Cary must have been quite
roused, for the first thing I knew she was showing unmistakable signs
of its being the real thing with her, though, of course, she would deny
it with oaths if I taxed her, while Flora--"

I stopped in sudden confusion.

"I forget," I faltered. "I said that neither had confided in me,
but--"

Aubrey grinned.

"But Flora has," he supplemented. "She has confessed her love, not
blushingly, but tumultuously, brazenly, tempestuously, and has begged
you to help her!"

I paused aghast. Aubrey had exactly stated the case.

"Well, she told Cary, too," I said, in self-extenuation, "so she can't
care very much that I've told you."

"Oh, no," said Aubrey, cheerfully. "She'll tell me herself the first
chance she gets."

"She told Cary that she had told me, so we felt at liberty to talk it
over," I added.

"She did?"

"And Cary was perfectly disgusted with her, and asked what I was going
to do. I said I didn't know. Then what do you think she did? Cary
asked me to ask Flora to visit me! What do you think of that for a
bluff?"

Again Aubrey grinned. He shook his head.

"That was no bluff, Faith dear. That was a move in a game of chess.
Cary Farquhar is the choicest--_unmarried_--girl I know! By Jove,
she's a corker!"

"She just did it to throw me off--to show me that _she_ didn't want
him!" I persisted.

The Angel shook his head and smiled inscrutably.

"When does she come?" he asked.

"Next week."

Aubrey pulled at his pipe.

"There will be something doing here next week, I'm thinking."

There was something doing.

First, I told old Mary that I was going to have company.

One ordinarily does not ask permission of one's cook, but Mary was such
a mother to me that I felt the announcement to be no more than her due.

"Who is it, Missus, dear?"

"Miss Flora Forsyth. Have you ever heard me speak of her?"

"Do you mean that blonde on the mantelpiece?" she asked, in the
conversational tone of one who but passed the time o' day.

"Mary!" I said.

She walked up to Flora's picture, took it down, looked at it, and put
it back.

"Well," I said, tentatively, "what do you think of her?"

"What do I think of her?" demanded Mary, wheeling on me so suddenly
that I dodged. "I think she is a little blister--that's what I think
of he