was eighteen until I was thirty-eight. It taught me to take my happiness seriously and my troubles lightly."  She shut her eyes for a moment, and her voice was very low and very deep and very vibrant.  "So, when I'm coolest and evenest and most mental, T. A., you may know that I've struck gold." 

 A great glow illumined Buck's fine eyes. He took two quick steps in her direction. But Emma McChesney, one hand on the door-knob, warned him off with the other. 

 "Hey—wait a minute!" pleaded Buck. 

 "Can't. I've a fitting at the tailor's at three-thirty—my new suit. Wait till you see it!" 

 "The dickens you have! But so have I"—he jerked out his watch—"at three-thirty! It's the suit I'm going to wear when I travel as a blushing bridegroom." 

 "So's mine. And look here, T. A.! We can't both leave this place for a fitting. It's absurd. If this keeps on, it will break up the business. We'll have to get married one at a time—or, at least, get our trousseaux one at a time. What's your suit?" 

 "Sort of brown." 

 "Brown? So's mine! Good heavens, T. A., we'll look like a minstrel troupe!" 

 

 Buck sighed resignedly. 

 "If I telephone my tailor that I can't make it until four-thirty, will you promise to be back by that time?" 

 "Yes; but remember, if your bride appears in a skirt that sags in the back or a coat that bunches across the shoulders, the crime will lie at your door." 

 So it was that the lynx-eyed office staff began to wonder if, after all, Pop Henderson was the wizard that he had claimed to be. 

 During working hours, Mrs. McChesney held rigidly to business. Her handsome partner tried bravely to follow her example. If he failed occasionally, perhaps Emma McChesney was not so displeased as she pretended to be. A business discussion, deeply interesting to both, was likely to run thus: 

 Buck, entering her office briskly, papers in hand:  "Mrs. McChesney—ahem!—I have here a letter from Singer & French, Columbus, Ohio. They ask for an extension. They've had 

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