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At this stage Peter came west. He was something in a bank, and was as round and jolly as ever; but he had evidently changed his attitude towards girls, for his rooms were full of their photos. They were stuck around everywhere and they were all pretty. Either Peter had excellent taste, or the Croyden photographers knew how to flatter. But there was one on the mantel which attracted my attention especially. If the photo were to be trusted the girl was quite the prettiest I had ever seen.

“Peter, what pretty girl’s picture is this on your mantel?” I called out to Peter, who was in his bedroom, donning evening dress for some function.

“That’s my cousin, Marian Lindsay,” he answered. “She is rather nice-looking, isn’t she. Lives in Croyden now–used to live up the river at Chiselhurst. Didn’t you ever chance across her when you were in Croyden?”

“No,” I said. “If I had I wouldn’t have forgotten her face.”

“Well, she’d be only a kid then, of course. She’s twenty-six now. Marian is a mighty nice girl, but she’s bound to be an old maid. She’s got notions–ideals, she calls ’em. All the Croyden fellows have been in love with her at one time or another but they might as well have made up to a statue. Marian really hasn’t a spark of feeling or sentiment in her. Her looks are the best part of her, although she’s confoundedly clever.”

Peter spoke rather squiffily. I suspected that he had been one of the smitten swains himself. I looked at the photo for a few minutes longer, admiring it more every minute and, when I heard Peter coming out, I did an unjustifiable thing–I took that photo and put it in my pocket.

I expected Peter would make a fuss when he missed it, but that very night the house in which he lived was burned to the ground. Peter escaped with the most important of his goods and chattels, but all the counterfeit presentments of his dear divinities went up in smoke. If he ever thought particularly of Marian Lindsay’s photograph he must have supposed that it shared the fate of the others.

As for me, I propped my ill-gotten treasure up on my mantel and worshipped it for a fortnight. At the end of that time I went boldly to Peter and told him I wanted him to introduce me by letter to his dear cousin and ask her to agree to a friendly correspondence with me.

Oddly enough, I did not do this without some reluctance, in spite of the fact that I was as much in love with Marian Lindsay as it was possible to be through the medium of a picture. I thought of the girl I had seen in the pine wood and felt an inward shrinking from a step that might divide me from her forever. But I rated myself for this nonsense. It was in the highest degree unlikely that I should ever meet the girl of the pines again. If she were still living she was probably some other man’s wife. I would think no more about it.

Peter whistled when he heard what I had to say.

“Of course I’ll do it, old man,” he said obligingly. “But I warn you I don’t think it will be much use. Marian isn’t the sort of girl to open up a correspondence in such a fashion. However, I’ll do the best I can for you.”

“Do. Tell her I’m a respectable fellow with no violent bad habits and all that. I’m in earnest, Peter. I want to make that girl’s acquaintance, and this seems the only way at present. I can’t get off just now for a trip east. Explain all this, and use your cousinly influence in my behalf if you possess any.”

Peter grinned.

“It’s not the most graceful job in the world you are putting on me, Curtis,” he said. “I don’t mind owning up now that I was pretty far gone on Marian myself two years ago. It’s all over now, but it was bad while it lasted. Perhaps Marian will consider your request more favourably if I put it in the light of a favour to myself. She must feel that she owes me something for wrecking my life.”