"I did not think—" he began. "I was not aware that Miss Trevor looked upon the matter in that light, and you know—"
"What disgusting equivocation," Miss Trevor interrupted. "He asked me point blank to marry him, and of course I consented. He has never mentioned to me that he wished to break the engagement, and I wouldn't have broken it."
I felt like a newsboy in a gallery,—I wanted to cheer. And the
Celebrity kicked the stones and things.
"Who would have thought," she persisted, "that the author of The Sybarites, the man who chose Desmond for a hero, could play thus idly with the heart of woman? The man who wrote these beautiful lines: 'Inconstancy in a woman, because of the present social conditions, is sometimes pardonable. In a man, nothing is more despicable.' And how poetic a justice it is that he has to marry me, and is thus forced to lead the life of self-denial he has conceived for his hero. Mr. Crocker, will you be my attorney if he should offer any objections?"
The humor of this proved too much for the three of us, and Miss Trevor herself went into peals of laughter. Would that the Celebrity could have seen his own face. I doubt if even he could have described it. But I wished for his sake that the earth might have kindly opened and taken him in.
"Marian," said Miss Trevor, "I am going to be very generous. I relinquish the prize to you, and to you only. And I flatter myself there are not many girls in this world who would do it."
"Thank you, Irene," Miss Thorn replied gravely, "much as I want him,
I could not think of depriving you."
Well, there is a limit to all endurance, and the Celebrity had reached his.
"Crocker," he said, "how far is it to the Canadian Pacific?"
I told him.