"I've got just the girl for you!" said Bill and I, simultaneously.
Wright laughed.
"The same one?" he asked, with interest.
"No, our tastes differ," I answered, "the one I have in mind is little and round and brown-haired. She's delightful."
"And mine," said Bill, "is just the right height, just the right shape, and as dark-haired and creamy-skinned as a Spanish princess. She is half Spanish, too, which means—temperament."
"Very interesting," said Wright. "Bring 'em both on. But I like amber-colored hair and brown eyes myself. Did you corner the market on the combination, Bill?"
"Of course," answered Bill gravely, "there aren't two like Mavis. That mould was broken."
"Lucky for me," agreed Wright, sighing. "I want to stay a carefree bachelor. I'm susceptible enough, Lord knows,—and very guileless. But my appearance protects me, as well as a certain modesty, not to say timidity, of manner. I've not your looks, nor your way with the wimmin, you handsome bridegroom," he concluded affectionately, smiling at Bill.
"Do tell me," I asked, leaning back in my great, carved chair, quite conscious that it served as an effective background for my hair, "about Bill's past. I can't get a word out of him on the subject."
There was a spark of admiration in the glance Bill shot me—an involuntary tribute.