"Captain Athelstan—Lord Arthur," I said. "I am deeply touched by the honor you have done your friendship and me. I will be equally frank—and brief—with you. I cannot choose either of you, because I love you both. Like every girl, I formed an ideal of a lover. I have been fortunate in finding my ideal in the flesh. I have been unfortunate in finding it in two pieces. Fate has bisected it, and given the form to one and the voice to the other. My ideal looks like you, Captain Athelstan, and sings like you, Lord Arthur. It is a stupid position, I know, and I feel like the donkey between two bundles of hay. But under the circumstances I have no choice."
They looked at each other half-rapturously, half-despairingly.
"Then what's to be done?" cried the Captain.
"I don't know," I said, hopelessly. "Love seems not only blind, but a blind alley, this time."
"D-do you m-m-ean," asked Lord Arthur, "'how happy could I be with either, were t'other dear charmer away?'"
I was glad he sang it, because it precipitated matters.
"That is the precise position," I admitted.
"Oh, then, Arthur, my boy, I congratulate you," said the Captain, huskily.
"N-n-no, I'll g-g-go away," said the singer.
They wrangled for full ten minutes, but the position remained a block.