“Don’t I believe it! I know it!” thundered Griswold, reaching for a towel. He lifted a white rose from a glass of water where it had spent the night, and regarded it tenderly. “The right rose under the right star, and the thing’s done; the rose, the star, and the girl—the combination simply can’t be beat, Ardy.”
Ardmore seized and wrung his friend’s hand for the twentieth time; but he was preoccupied, and Griswold, fastening his collar at the mirror, hummed softly the couplet:
With the winking eye
For my battle-cry.
“Grissy!” shouted Ardmore, “she never did it!”
“Oh—bless my soul, what was I saying! Why, of course she wasn’t the one! Not Miss Dangerfield—never!”
“Well, you like her, don’t you?” demanded Ardmore petulantly.
“Of course I like her, you idiot! She’s wonderful. She’s——”
He frowned upon the scarf he had chosen with much care, snapped it to shake the wrinkles out, humming softly, while Ardmore glared at him.
“She’s wise,” Griswold resumed, “with the wisdom of laughter—accept that, with my compliments. It’s not often I do so well before breakfast. And now if you’re to be congratulated before I go back to the groves of Academe, pray bestir yourself. At this very moment I have an engagement to walk with a lady before breakfast—thanks, yes, that’s my coat. Good-bye!”