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“Why, proposed to her–asked her to marry him,” said the girl, with a stare.

“Dear me! How stupid of me! I forgot that special use of the word. Yes?”

“The girl likes him pretty well, and her people approve of him, and all that, you know.”

“That simplifies the problem,” said the philosopher, nodding again.

“But she’s not in–in love with him, you know. She doesn’t really care for him–much. Do you understand?”

“Perfectly. It is a most natural state of mind.”

“Well then, suppose that there’s another man –what are you writing?”

“I only put down (B)–like that,” pleaded the philosopher, meekly exhibiting his note-book.

She looked at him in a sort of helpless exasperation, with just a smile somewhere in the background of it.

“Oh, you really are–” she exclaimed. “But let me go on. The other man is a friend of the girl’s: he’s very clever–oh, fearfully clever–and he’s rather handsome. You needn’t put that down.”

“It is certainly not very material,” admitted the philosopher, and he crossed out “handsome”; “clever” he left.

“And the girl is most awfully–she admires him tremendously; she thinks him just the greatest man that ever lived, you know. And she–she–” The girl paused.

“I’m following,” said the philosopher, with pencil poised.

“She’d think it better than the whole world if –if she could be anything to him, you know.”

“You mean become his wife?”

“Well, of course I do–at least, I suppose I do.”

“You spoke rather vaguely, you know.”

The girl cast one glance at the philosopher as she replied:

“Well, yes; I did mean become his wife.”

“Yes. Well?”

“But,” continued the girl, starting on another tuft of grass, “he doesn’t think much about those things. He likes her. I think he likes her–“

“Well, doesn’t dislike her?” suggested the philosopher. “Shall we call him indifferent?”

“I don’t know. Yes, rather indifferent. I don’t think he thinks about it, you know. But she–she’s pretty. You needn’t put that down.”

“I was not about to do so,” observed the philosopher.

“She thinks life with him would be just heaven; and–and she thinks she would make him awfully happy. She would–would be so proud of him, you see.”

“I see. Yes?”

“And–I don’t know how to put it, quite–she thinks that if he ever thought about it at all he might care for her; because he doesn’t care for anybody else, and she’s pretty–“

“You said that before.”

“Oh dear, I dare say I did. And most men care for somebody, don’t they? Some girl, I mean.”

“Most men, no doubt,” conceded the philosopher.

“Well then, what ought she to do? It’s not a real thing, you know, Mr. Jerningham. It’s in –in a novel I was reading.” She said this hastily, and blushed as she spoke.

“Dear me! And it’s quite an interesting case! Yes, I see. The question is, Will she act most wisely in accepting the offer of the man who loves her exceedingly, but for whom she entertains only a moderate affection–“

“Yes; just a liking. He’s just a friend.”

“Exactly. Or in marrying the other whom she loves ex–“

“That’s not it. How can she marry him? He hasn’t–he hasn’t asked her, you see.”

“True; I forgot. Let us assume, though, for the moment, that he has asked her. She would then have to consider which marriage would probably be productive of the greater sum total of–“

“Oh, but you needn’t consider that.”

“But it seems the best logical order. We can afterward make allowance for the element of uncertainty caused by–“

“Oh no; I don’t want it like that. I know perfectly well which she’d do if he–the other man you know–asked her.”

“You apprehend that–“

“Never mind what I ‘apprehend.’ Take it as I told you.”

“Very good. A has asked her hand, B has not.”

“Yes.”

“May I take it that, but for the disturbing influence of B, A would be a satisfactory–er–candidate?”

“Ye–es; I think so.”

“She therefore enjoys a certainty of considerable happiness if she marries A?”

“Ye–es; not perfect, because of–B, you know.”

“Quite so, quite so; but still a fair amount of happiness. Is it not so?”