"There were none," lied Miss Knowles soulfully with a disdainful backward glance toward Mr. Stevenson. "For a time I thought there was one. But whenever I thought of that last talk of ours—you remember it, don't you?"
"Of course. I told you I was going to be married as soon as I came home. Well, and so I am."
"So you are. But I used to think that if you hesitated to tell me; if you felt that I might still be hard about it and unsympathetic; if you decided to confide no more in me—"
"But you would be sure to know. Even if I had not telegraphed I never could have kept it a secret from you."
"Not easily. I should have been, as you observe, sure to know. Do you remember how I always refused to believe you? It was not until you were in that horrid Japan, where all the women are supposed to be beautiful—"
"Yes," Jimmie acquiesced. "It was when I was in Japan."
"It was then that it began to seem possible that you would be married when you came home. It was then that I began to realize that I didn't deserve to be told of your plans. For I had been a fool, Jimmie. You had been a fool, too, but not in the way you think. And so, if you will sit where I sat that horrid day, we will begin that conversation all over again and end it differently. The first speech was yours. Do you remember it?"
"But I'm going to be married," said Jimmie.
"Good boy. He knows his lesson. And now I say, 'To the most beautiful woman in the world?'"
"To the most beautiful woman God ever made. The dearest, the most clever, the most simple."