“As in the old days,” said I, glancing over my shoulder to see now near the others were.  A groom is never to be considered.  “Yes, as in the old days.”

“Well, I have often regretted that I did not accept you as an experiment.”

Then I knew that she did not understand.

“You must not think I am jesting,” said I, seriously.  “The story is of the bitter-sweet kind.  The heroine loves me, but cannot be mine.”

“Loves you?” with a slight start.  “How do you know?”

“She has told me so,” lowering my voice.

Frankness of this sort to a woman who has rejected you has a peculiar effect.  The coquetry faded from her smile, and there was a perceptible contraction of the brows.  Her eyes, which were looking into mine, shifted to the back of the groom.  No, I shall never understand a woman.  She should have been the most sympathetic woman in the world, yet she appeared to be annoyed.

“What’s all this between you and Phyllis?” asked Ethel, coming up.

“There is nothing between her and me,” said I.

“Well, there should be,” she retorted.  “That is the trouble.”

My observation was:  “I have always held that immediately a woman gets married she makes it her business to see that all old bachelors are lugged out and disposed of to old maids.”

“I shall never forgive that,” Phyllis declared; “never.”

“Then I shall always have the exquisite pleasure of being a supplicant for your pardon.  It is delightful to sue pardon of a beautiful woman.”

Phyllis sniffed.

“Forgive him at once,” said Ethel, “if only for that pretty speech.”

Mr. Holland pulled out his watch suggestively.

“Well,” I said, “I see that I am keeping you from your lunch.  Good-by, then, till dinner, when I shall continue at length on the evils—­”

“William,” interrupted Ethel, addressing the groom, “drive on.”

And so they left us.

“Shall we go to lunch now?” I asked of Pembroke.

“Yes,” rather dreamily I thought.  “Do you know,” with sudden animation, “she is a remarkably beautiful woman?”

“Yes, she is.”  After all, the sight of Phyllis had rather upset me.

“I had a glimpse of her in Vienna last winter,” went on Pembroke.  “I never knew who she was.”

“Vienna!” I exclaimed.

“Yes.  It was at a concert.  Her face was indelibly graven on my memory.  I asked a neighbor who she was, but when I went to point her out she was gone.  I should like to see more of her.”

So Gretchen had been in Vienna, and poor Hillars had never known!