Alice spent one evening at home, and she took her cousin into her confidence. “I've an idea, Allan, that Harry Curtiss is going to ask me to marry him. I thought it was right to tell you about it.”
“I've had a suspicion of it,” said Montague, smiling.
“Harry has a feeling you don't like him,” said the girl. “Is that true?”
“No,” replied Montague, “not precisely that.” He hesitated.
“I don't understand about it,” she continued. “Do you think I ought not to marry him?”
Montague studied her face. “Tell me,” he said, “have you made up your mind to marry him?”
“No,” she answered, “I cannot say that I have.”
“If you have,” he added, “of course there is no use in my talking about it.”
“I wish you would tell me just what happened between you and him,” exclaimed the girl.
“It was simply,” said Montague, “that I found that Curtiss was doing, in a business way, something which I considered improper. Other people are doing it, of course—he has that excuse.”