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It was neither the place, the hour, nor the subject for laughter, but I forgot my neurasthenia and gave way to a burst of wholehearted mirth! Every second of time seemed to increase the unconscious humor of her point of view, and only fear of the nurse on duty in the corridor enabled me to control myself at all.

“Have I been funny?” she asked delightedly, as she drew her head in the window. “I never can see my own jokes, but I’m glad to have amused you, only I did hope for a little sympathy. Everybody can’t be Zenobias and Vashtis and Lauras, superior to common weaknesses!”

“I do, I do sympathize,” I said, wiping the tears of merriment from my eyes, “and I agree with you much more than with Laura. Now the ‘other man’ is, I suppose, all that is grave and reverend–a complete contrast to the too trivial Thomas?”

“Yes, and he’s as good as good can be; trustworthy, talented, honorable, everything; you know the kind? I never get on with them.”

“Does he love you?”

“Laura thinks he does, but I’ve no reason to suppose so. We’ve always been friends, while Tom Beckett and I squabble and make up twice a week; but anyway, even if he doesn’t adore me in Tom’s silly way, Laura says I ought not to mind. She says it would be noble of me to help him to a splendid and prosperous career, and thinks I ought to remember how much my father wanted him for a son-in-law–you see he is awfully poor.”

At this coupling of fathers and poverty a sudden light blazed in upon my consciousness and I sat bolt upright among the sofa-pillows. How could I have guessed that the love-affairs of this rosy-cheeked dumpling, the casual acquaintance of a rest-cure, could have any connection with my own? If she hadn’t been the sort of person who confides at first sight we should have learned each other’s names at the beginning and been on guard. The truth is, I had thought of no one but Tom Beckett in her confessions; the personality of “the other man” had stolen into the chronicle so late in the day that I had taken no interest in him.

“Are you Amy Darling?” I asked her plump.

“Yes, but how mean of you to pump Blossom! I wanted to go on thinking of you as Zuleika and have you call me something imaginary and romantic.”

“I am Philippa Armstrong. Did you ever hear the name?”

“No, but it’s all right; it looks like you, and it’s nearly as pretty as Zenobia. Now if Tom Beckett had only chosen you and I could have obliged Laura by falling in love with–“

“Don’t mention the other man’s name!” I cried hastily; “it just comes to me that I may have met him.”

“Met Dick Morton?”

It was true then! Here was the girl whom Richard ought, for his worldly good, to marry, and she was not a woman at all, only an Angora kitten, and moreover a kitten in love with Tom Beckett!

“Yes, I have met him, but I only this moment suspected it!”

“Have you known him long?”

“Less than a year.”

“That settles it!” she cried, leaping to her feet excitedly. “If Dick Morton has known you for a year he won’t want me and I can marry Tom! Goody, goody, goody!”

“Stuff and nonsense!” I said quickly. “Richard Morton is only a very dear friend.”

“Stuff and nonsense yourself! No man with an eye in his head could be a dear friend to you! And Dick Morton is the hero sort who doesn’t care for Dottie Dimples, but worships Vashtis and Zuleika-Zenobias. Have you any money?”

“Not a penny!”

“Oh, dear! I might have known you wouldn’t have, with that hair and those eyes. Never mind! I’m certain that Dick would rather have a pauper goddess than a rich little earthworm.”

“You mustn’t talk any more about the matter,” I said with as much dignity as I could muster in the midst of her laughter-provoking nonsense, which made the most sacred subjects seem a natural matter of discussion. “I know through Mrs. Taunton all about the circumstances–your father’s wishes and his letter to Richard. If you can possibly love him you must accept him, advance his fortunes, and do your duty by your father. I am determined to be as noble as Laura Simonds in this matter and I refuse to be a stumbling-block!”