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young woman he played—amusingly, never offensively, even rather delightfully—the role of a swain smitten by her charms. I enjoyed the game when he played it with me, and I was startled and excited—though I didn't believe it—when my cousin Lily Hammersly confided in me that she thought Miles was less joking and more in earnest with me than with others.
    "But why should that be?" I demanded.
    "I assume he thinks the time has come to get married. Don't they all?"
    "And what makes me the lucky girl?"
    "Because he's in love with you, silly."
    "Maybe he's in love with what he imagines to be my money."
    "Oh, they all want money. That's what the French call the
donnée.
We're not above it ourselves, are we? The Thorns, I mean. How did Descartes put it:
Je dépense; donc je suis?
That's me all over."
    "But Lily,
love?
What about that?"
    "Do you think money rules out love? Dream on, dear."
    Well, such an idea was intensely interesting to any girl of nineteen, and I was no exception. Miles immediately became the principal preoccupation of my agitated mind and spirits, and a strong sentiment for him soon bit the heels of my temporary doubts. Was there a real Miles under the cynical wit, the perennial extra man? And would he be real to me when he was only a jester in the court of the great Mrs. Astor?
    I had, as must now be clear, little basic confidence in my own attractions. I may have been blond and blue-eyed and made a pleasant enough impression when I entered a room, but brother Otto used to observe, in his sour fashion, that I had bad bone structure and would probably have a pancake face at thirty and that I'd better catch a man while I could. I became what I considered engagingly coy at Mile's advances.
    "You pretend to find me bold and brassy," he told me, as we sat out a dance at Lily's younger sister's coming-out ball, "but you don't. In fact, I rather intrigue you, don't I?"
    "And just what, besides your elephantine ego, gives you that idea?"
    "Because you intrigue
me.
And girls who do that are apt to find me really intriguing."
    "But you've heard of exceptions that prove the rule."
    "Agnes Seward, haven't you divined by now that I'm considering proposing to you? And do you think I'd do that if I had any reason to believe you didn't have the sense to find me charming?"
    "Propose to me! Are you in a position to propose to anyone? Can you support a family?"
    "No, but you can."
    "
Merci du compliment!
Anyway, that would depend on what Papa would do for me. And it's not likely that he would approve of you. Why, you don't even have a job!"
    "Well, I wouldn't throw away your money the way he has your mother's."
    I should have got up and walked away. But I didn't, and his horrid smile took full advantage of my indecision.
    "How dare you speak of my father like that!"
    "Everyone knows it. Certainly everyone who knows Otto."
    "Otto is outrageous."
    "Let's leave that aside. Will you marry me?"
    "Of course not."
    "Shall we dance?"
    "I think we'd better."
    And we danced. But from then on our relationship was distinctly changed. He was—to me—a declared suitor and a constant caller at the house. My parents were not aware of his intentions; I can now see that they probably considered him a confirmed bachelor, or even a pederast, though the latter term was unknown to me at the time. Papa did, however, see fit to warn me of Miles's complete ineligibility.
    "Mr. Constable is a pleasant enough addition to any dinner party, Agnes. But don't get into your head the idea that he could ever, by the remotest possibility, be considered an appropriate mate for any of your circle. He is jobless and penniless and has no purpose in life but to amuse himself and others. Such men end up either in the gutter or marrying rich women. I don't know which fate is worse."
    This was quite in keeping with what I expected of Papa; it was obviously in keeping with his role in my life. But I was be- ginning to suspect that Miles might be