“But—­but,” expostulated Garrison, his face white, “supposing the real me—­I mean, supposing I had not come home?  Supposing I had been dead?”

“Why, then,” she replied calmly, “then, I suppose, I would have a chance of marrying some one I really loved.  But what is the use of supposing?  Here you are, turned up at the last minute, like a bad penny, and here I am, very much alive.  Ergo, our relatives’ wishes respectfully fulfilled, and—­connubial misery ad libitum. Mes condolences.  If you feel half as bad as I do, I really feel sorry for you.  But, frankly, I think the joke is decidedly on me.”

Garrison was silent, staring with hard eyes at the ground.  He could not begin to analyze his thoughts.

“You are not complimentary, at all events,” he said quietly at length.

“So every one tells me,” she sighed.

“I did not know of this arrangement,” he added, looking up, a queer smile twisting his lips.

“And now you are lonesomely miserable, like I am,” she rejoined, crossing a restless leg.  “No doubt you left your ideal in New York.  Perhaps you are married already.  Are you?” she cried eagerly, seizing his arm.

“No such good luck—­for you,” he added, under his breath.

“I thought so,” she sighed resignedly.  “Of course no one would have you.  It’s hopeless.”

“It’s not,” he argued sharply, his pride, anger in revolt.  He, who had no right to any claim.  “We’re not compelled to marry each other.  It’s a free country.  It is ridiculous, preposterous.”

“Oh, don’t get so fussy!” she interrupted petulantly.  “Don’t you think I’ve tried to kick over the traces?  And I’ve had more time to think of it than you—­all my life.  It is a family institution.  Your uncle pledged his nephew, if he should have one, and my parents pledged me.  We are hostages to their friendship.  They wished to show how much they cared for one another by making us supremely miserable for life.  Of course, I spent my life in arranging how you should look, if you ever came home—­which I devoutly hoped you wouldn’t.  It wouldn’t be so difficult, you see, if you happened to match my ideals.  Then it would be a real love-feast, with parents’ blessings and property thrown in to boot.”

“And then I turned up—­a little, under-sized, nothingless pea, instead of the regular patented, double-action, stalwart Adonis of your imagination,” added Garrison dryly.

“How well you describe yourself!” said the girl admiringly.

“It must be horrible!” he condoled half-cynically.

“And of course you, too, were horribly disappointed?” she added, after a moment’s pause, tapping her oxford with tennis-racket.

Garrison turned and deliberately looked into her gray eyes.

“Yes; I am—­horribly,” he lied calmly.  “My ideal is the dark, quiet girl of the clinging type.”

“She wouldn’t have much to cling to,” sniffed the girl.  “We’ll be miserable together, then.  Do you know, I almost hate you!  I think I do.  I’m quite sure I do.”