Leila was wrong. J. Frederic Thomas—who quite predictably, being paired off with the only unattached female on Mars as his cicerone, had immediately found himself caught in the same thorny dilemma that gouged his opposite number on Earth—was eager to help. The result of Ellis' inquiry was a swift letter from Yrml Orise y Yrl to Mirrh Yahn y Cona; a letter which Ellis turned over in duplicate, one in Martian ideograph, the other a translation, to Leila.
It broke Yrml's engagement to Yahn for the excellent reasons that J. Frederic Thomas was not only more Martian in physique and deportment, but also possessed a fine reedy tenor which blended ever so better with Yrml's soprano in the less poignant duets from the Tchulkione Serafi.
"The man never lived," Ellis pointed out, "Martian or Terran, no matter how relieved he might be, whose ego wouldn't need attention after a letter beginning Dear Yahn. Shall I let it go on through the mails, or will you—"
Leila answered him on her way out. "Don't bother," she said.
THE END