"How is that dear little Charlotte Weyland? It seems to me I haven't seen her for a year, though it was positively only last week."
"Oh! She seemed very well when I saw her last."
So Mr. West, of the lady he was going to marry. For, though he had never had just the right opportunity to complete the sweet message he had begun at the Byrds' one night, his mind was still quite made up on that point. It was true that the atmosphere of riches which fairly exuded from the girl now at his side had a very strong appeal for his lower instincts. But he was not a man to be ridden by his lower instincts. No; he had set his foot upon the fleshpots; his idealistic nature had overcome the world.
Miss Avery, sublimely unaware that Mr. West was going to offer marriage to her rival during the present month, the marriage itself to take place in October, indolently continued:—
"To my mind she's quite the most attractive dear little thing in town. I suppose she's quite recovered from her disappointment over the—hospital, or whatever it was?"
"Oh, I believe so. I never heard her mention it but once."
West's pleasant face had clouded a little. Through her fluttering veil she noted that fact with distinct satisfaction.
"I never met that interesting young Mr. Surface," said she, sweeping the car around a curve in the white road and evading five women in a surrey with polished skill. "But—truly, I have found myself thinking of him and feeling sorry for him more than once."
"Sorry for him—What about?"
"Oh, haven't you heard, then? It's rather mournful. You see, when Charlotte Weyland found out that he had written a certain editorial in the Post—you know more about this part of it than I—"