“Silly boy,” she laughed, her radiant eyes burning on him, at which he threatened to begin the treatment forthwith.

“You darling!” he cried.  “My little Alice!  Hanged if I can ever call you anything but Alice!”

She looked up at him archly and nestled close.

“Lloyd, dear, I know a nicer name than Alice.”

“Yes?”

“A nicer name than Mary.”

“Yes?”

“A nicer name than any name.”

“What is it, you little beauty?” he murmured, drawing her closer still and pressing his lips to hers.

“How can I—­tell you—­unless you—­let me—­speak?” she panted.

Then, with wonderful dancing lights in those deep, strange windows of her soul, she whispered:  “The nicest name in the world for me is—­Mrs. Lloyd Kittredge!”

THE END