Mr. Wilson shook his head. “No, upon my soul I’ve done nothing but tell her how I—how I was looking forward to—oh, hang it, Belmore, the letters have been all right, I know that.”
“H’m,” said Mr. Belmore, “there’s got to be something back of it, you know. Seen any girls since you’ve been gone?”
Mr. Wilson hastened to shake his head more emphatically than before. “Not one,” he asseverated with the relief of complete innocence. “Didn’t even meet a soul I knew, except Brower—you remember Dick Brower? I went into a jeweler’s to get my glasses mended and found him buying a souvenir spoon for his fiancée.”
“O—o—h!” said Mr. Belmore intelligently, “and did you buy a present for Edith?”
“No, I didn’t. She made me promise not to buy anything more for her; she thinks I’m spending too much money, and that I ought to economize.”
“And did you tell her about Brower?”
“Why, of course I did—as we were coming out this morning.”
Mr. Wilson stared blankly at his friend.
“Chump!” said Mr. Belmore. He bit off the end of a new cigar and threw it away. “Wilson, my poor fellow, you’re so besotted in ignorance that I don’t know how to let the light in on you. A man is a fool by the side of his fiancée, anyhow.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” said the bewildered Wilson stiffly. “I don’t know what I’m to do.”