Victory for the defense!  Yet the rosebud face of Anne Leffingwell expressed concern and doubt rather than gratification.  There is such a thing as triumph being too complete.

“I think you’re doing it very nicely,” was the demure reply.

Notwithstanding this encomium, the workman knocked off early to sit on my bench and indulge in the expression of certain undeniable but vague truisms, such as that while there is life there is hope, and it isn’t necessary to display a marriage license in order to purchase a plain gold band.  But his usual buoyant optimism was lacking; he spoke like one who strives to convince himself.  Later on the lady in the case paused to offer to me some contumelious if impersonal reflections upon love at first sight, which she stigmatized as a superstition unworthy of the consideration of serious minds.  But there was a dreamy light in her eyes, and the smile on her lips, while it may not have been expressive of serious consideration, was not wholly condemnatory.  The carnivorous orchid was having a good day and keeping its own counsel as a sensible orchid expectant of continued patronage should do.

There was an obviously somber tinge to Mr. Dyke’s color scheme on the following afternoon, tending to an over-employment of black, when an impressive and noiseless roadster purred its way to the curb, there discharging a quite superb specimen of manhood in glorious raiment.  The motorist paused to regard with unfeigned surprise the design of the house front.  Presently he recovered sufficiently to ask: 

“Could you tell me if Miss Leffingwell lives here?”

The painter turned upon his precarious plank so sharply that he was all but precipitated into the area. “Who?” he said.

“Miss Leffingwell.”

“You don’t mean Mrs. Leffingwell?” queried the aerial operator in a strained tone.

“No; I don’t.  I mean Miss Anne Leffingwell.”

The painter flourished the implement of his trade to the peril of the immaculate garments below.  “Toora-loo!” he warbled.

“I beg your pardon,” said the new arrival.

“I said ‘Toora-loo.’  It’s a Patagonian expression signifying satisfaction and relief; sort of I-thought-so-all-the-time effect.”

“You seem a rather unusual and learned sort of house painter,” reflected the stalwart Adonis.  “Is that Patagonian art?”

“Symbolism.  It represents hope struggling upward from the oppression of doubt and despair.  That,” he added, splashing in a prodigal streak of whooping scarlet, “is resurgent joy surmounting the misty mountain-tops of—­”

The opening door below him cut short the disquisition.

“Reg!” cried the tenant breathlessly.  Straight into the big young man’s ready arms she dived, and the petrified and stricken occupant of the dizzy plank heard her muffled voice quaver:  “Wh—­wh—­wh—­why didn’t you come before?”

To which the young giant responded in gallingly protective tones:  “You little idiot!”