“Personally, as you know,” I said to Dorothy, “I think he’s a silly ass.  And if you think so too—­”

“I say, look here, old chap—­”

Dorothy nodded.  I dipped the pen in the ink.

“Then out he goes,” I said, and I drew a line through him.  When I looked up only Dorothy was there....

“Dorothy!” I said.  “At last!”

“But my name isn’t really Dorothy, you know,” she said with a smile.  “It’s Dorothy this week, and last week it was Phyllis, and the week before—­”

“Then what is it really?  Tell me!  So that I may know my ideal when I see her again.”

I got ready to write the name down.  I dipped my pen in the ink again, and I drew a line through Dorothy, and then I looked up questioningly at her, and...

Fool, fool!  She was gone!

II faut vivre.  You’ll see the story in one of the papers this week.  You’ll recognize it, because he is called Harold, and she is called Lucy.  At the end of the second column he proposes and she accepts him.  Lucy—­of all names!  It serves them right.