"When did you last see him?" I asked.

   "Oh, ages ago! He has not been near us for weeks. We used to be such friends. I don't think it's very polite of him, do you?"

   "I'll order him to call forthwith," said I.

   "Oh, please don't! If he won't come of his own accord—I don't want to see him particularly."

   She tossed her shapely head and looked at me bravely.

   "You are quite right," said I. "Dale's a selfish, ill-mannered young cub."

   "He isn't!" she flashed. "How dare you say such things about him!"

   I smiled and took both her hands—one of them held a piece of brown bread-and-butter.

   "My dear," said I, "model yourself on Little Bo-Peep. I don't know who gave her the famous bit of advice, but I think it was I myself in a pastoral incarnation. I had a woolly cloak and a crook, and she was like a Dresden china figure—the image of you."

   Her eyes swam, but she laughed and said I was good to her. I said:

   "The man who wouldn't be good to you is an unhung villain."

   Then her mother joined us, and our little confidential talk came to an end. It was enough, however, to convince me that my poor little Ariadne was shedding many desperate tears in secret over her desertion.

   On my way home I looked in on my doctor. His name is Hunnington. He grasped me by the hand and eagerly inquired whether my pain was worse. I said it was not. He professed delight, but looked disappointed. I ought to have replied in the affirmative. It is so easy to make others happy.

   I dined, read a novel, and went to sleep in the cheerful frame of mind induced by the consciousness of having made some little progress on the path of eumoiriety.

   The next morning Dale made his customary appearance. He wore a morning coat, a dark tie, and patent-leather boots.

   "Well," said I, "have you dressed more carefully today?"

   He looked himself anxiously over and inquired whether there was anything wrong. I assured him of 

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