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He also remembered that he had not said a word to Freda about the Ideal. And he never did say much more–perhaps because he could not get the chance. Tim was always there before him and generally outstayed him.

One day when he went out he did not find Freda at home. Her aunt told him that she was out riding with Mr. Grayson. On his way back he met them. As they cantered by, Freda waved her riding whip at him. Her face was full of warm, ripe, kissable tints, her loose lovelocks were blowing about it, and her eyes shone like grey pools mirroring stars. Roger turned and watched them out of sight behind the firs that cupped Lowlands.

That night at Mrs. Crandall’s dinner table somebody began to talk about Freda. Roger strained his ears to listen. Mrs. Kitty Carr was speaking–Mrs. Kitty knew everything and everybody.

“She is simply the most charming girl in the world when you get really acquainted with her,” said Mrs. Kitty, with the air of having discovered and patented Freda. “She is so vivid and unconventional and lovable–‘spirit and fire and dew,’ you know. Tim Grayson is a very lucky fellow.”

“Are they engaged?” someone asked.

“Not yet, I fancy. But of course it is only a question of time. Tim simply adores her. He is a good soul and has lots of money, so he’ll do. But really, you know, I think a prince wouldn’t be good enough for Freda.”

Roger suddenly became conscious that the Ideal was asking him a question of which he had not heard a word. He apologized and was forgiven. But he went home a very miserable man.

He did not go to Lowlands for two weeks. They were the longest, most wretched two weeks he had ever lived through. One afternoon he heard that Tim Grayson had gone back west. Mrs. Kitty told it mournfully.

“Of course, this means that Freda has refused him,” she said. “She is such an odd girl.”

Roger went straight out to Lowlands. He found Freda in the snuggery and held out his hands to her.

“Freda, will you marry me? It will take a lifetime to tell you how much I love you.”

“But the Ideal?” questioned Freda.

“I have just discovered what my ideal is,” said Roger. “She is a dear, loyal, companionable little girl, with the jolliest laugh and the warmest, truest heart in the world. She has starry grey eyes, two dimples, and a mouth I must and will kiss–there–there–there! Freda, tell me you love me a little bit, although I’ve been such a besotted idiot.”

“I will not let you call my husband-that-is-to-be names,” said Freda, snuggling down into the curve of his shoulder. “But indeed, Roger-boy, you will have to make me very, very happy to square matters up. You have made me so unutterably unhappy for two months.”

“The pursuit of the Ideal is ended,” declared Roger.