“My writing!” exclaimed Mrs. Easterfield.  “Now don’t trifle!  This is no time to make fun of me.  Olive may be accepting him this minute.”

“It seems to me,” said Mr. Easterfield, slowly puffing his cigar, “that it would not be such a very bad thing if she did.  So far as I have been able to judge, he is my favorite of the claimants.  Du Brant and I have met frequently, and if I were a girl I would not want to marry him.  Locker is too little for Miss Asher, and, besides, he is too flighty.  Your young professor may be good enough, but from my limited conversation with him at the table I could not form much of an opinion as to him one way or another.  I have an opinion of Hemphill, and a very good one.  He is a first-class young man, a rising one with prospects, and, more than that, I think he is the best-looking of the lot.”

“Tom,” said Mrs. Easterfield, “do you suppose I sent for you to talk such nonsense as that?  Can you imagine that my sense of honor toward Olive’s parents would allow me even to consider a marriage between a high-class girl, such as she is—­high-class in every way—­to a mere commonplace private secretary?  I don’t care what his attributes and merits are; he is commonplace to the backbone; and he is impossible.  If what ought to be a brilliant career ends suddenly in Rupert Hemphill I shall have Olive on my conscience for the rest of my life.”

“That settles it,” said Mr. Tom Easterfield; “your conscience, my dear, has not been trained to carry loads, and I shall not help to put one on it.  Hemphill is a good man, but we must rule him out.”

“Yes,” said she, “Olive is a great deal more than good.  He must be ruled out.”

“But I can’t send him away this afternoon,” Tom continued.  “That would put them both on their mettle, and, ten to one, he would considerately announce his engagement before he left.”

“No,” said she.  “Olive is very sharp, and would resent that.  But now that you are here I feel safe from any immediate rashness on their part.”

“You are right,” said Mr. Tom.  “My very coming will give them pause.  And now I want to see the girl.”

“What for?” asked Mrs. Easterfield.

“I want to get acquainted with her.  I don’t know her yet, and I can’t talk to her if I don’t know her.”

“Are you going to talk to her about Hemphill?”

“Yes, for one thing,” he answered.

“Well,” said she, “you will have to be very circumspect.  She is both alert, and sensitive.”

“Oh, I’ll be circumspect enough,” he replied.  “You may trust me for that.”

It was not long after this that Mrs. Easterfield, being engaged in some hospitable duties, sent Olive to show Mr. Tom the garden, and it was rather a slight to that abode of beauty that the tour of the rose-lined paths occupied but a very few minutes, when Mr. Easterfield became tired, and desired to sit down.  Having seated themselves on Mrs. Easterfield’s favorite bench, Olive looked up at her companion, and asked: