"Post tells me," he said, "he has the very man you want for your architect. He's sure you'll find him most understanding and—and—sympathetic. He's a young man who is just coming to the front, and he's very popular, especially with women."
"What's his being popular with women," asked Aline, "got to do with his carrying out my ideas of a house?"
"That's just it," said Griswold—"it's the woman who generally has the most to say as to how her house shall be built, and this man understands woman. I have reasons for believing he will certainly understand you!"
"If he understands me well enough to give me all the linen-closets I want," said Aline, "he will be perfectly satisfactory."
Before delivering his blow Griswold sank back into his corner of the car, drew his hat brim over his forehead, and fixed spying eyes upon the very lovely face of the girl he had asked to marry him.
"His name," he said in fateful tones, "is Charles Cochran!"
It was supposed to be a body blow; but, to his distress, Aline neither started nor turned pale. Neither, for trying to trick her, did she turn upon him in reproof and anger. Instead, with alert eyes, she continued to peer out of the window at the electric-light advertisements and her beloved Broadway.
"Well?" demanded Griswold; his tone was hoarse and heavy with meaning.
"Well what?" asked Aline pleasantly.
"How," demanded Griswold, "do you like Charles Cochran for an architect?"