was too much for me.” 

 “Don’t you really know what it says?” she asked more earnestly. 

 “Yes, I do,” Clover answered, “but Denham must never know that I do.” 

 “I won’t tell him,” she said smiling faintly. “But surely he can’t be as badly off as this says. Has he really lost all his hair?” 

 “Not all—only in spots,” Clover reassured her; but then his recollections overcame him, and he added, with a grin: “But he’s a fearful looking specimen, all right, though.” 

 “About my brother,” she went on, turning the letter thoughtfully in her fingers; “when can he get out, do they think?” 

 “Any time next week.” 

 “I’ll write him,” she said. “I’ll write him and tell him that everything will be arranged for—for—for them both.” 

 Clover sprang to his feet. 

 “Oh, thank you,” he exclaimed. “That’s most awfully good in you!” 

 “Not at all,” she answered. “I’m very glad to be able to welcome them. You must impress that upon them—particularly—particularly on my brother.” 

 Clover smiled. 

 “I will,” he said, rising to go. 

 “I’d ask you to stay longer,” she said, holding out her hand, “but I’m due at a charity entertainment to-night, and I have to go very early.” 

 “I know,” he said; “I’ve come up on purpose to go to it.” 

 “Then I shall see you there?” she asked him. 

 “It will be what I shall be looking forward to most of all,” he said. 

 “It’s been a great pleasure to meet you,” she said, holding out her hand, “you’re—well, you’re ‘unlike,’ as they say in literary criticisms.” 

 “Thank you,” he replied; “but may I ask if you intend that as a compliment?” 

 “Dear me,” she laughed, “let me think how I did intend it.—Yes, it was meant for a compliment.” 

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