“Somehow or other I’ve done it again!” he thought, horrified.  “The best thing I can do is to end it and go home.”

In his distress he began to hedge, saying:  “Of course, she is rather tall and her feet are in some sort of proportion—­in fact, they are perfectly symmetrical feet—­”

Never in his life had he encountered a pair of such angrily beautiful eyes.  Speech stopped with a dry gulp.

“We now come to ‘General Remarks,’” she said in a voice made absolutely steady and emotionless.  “Have you any remarks of that description to offer, Mr. Gatewood?”

“I’m willing to make remarks,” he said, “if I only knew what you wished me to say.”

She mused, eyes on the sunny window, then looked up.  “Where did you last see her?”

“Near Fifth Avenue.”

“And what street?”

He named the street.

“Near here?”

“Rather,” he said timidly.

She ruffled the edges of her pad, wrote something and erased it, bit her scarlet upper lip, and frowned.

“Out of doors, of course?”

“No; indoors,” he admitted furtively.

She looked up with a movement almost nervous.

“Do you dare—­I mean, care—­to be more concise?”

“I would rather not,” he replied in a voice from which he hoped he had expelled the tremors of alarm.

“As you please, Mr. Gatewood.  And would you care to answer any of these other questions:  Who and what are or were her parents?  Give all particulars concerning all her relatives.  Is she employed or not?  What are her social, financial, and general circumstances?  Her character, personal traits, aims, interests, desires?  Has she any vices?  Any virtues?  Talents?  Ambitions?  Caprices?  Fads?  Are you in love with her?  Is—­”

“Yes,” he said, “I am.”

“Is she in love with you?”

“No; she hates me—­I’m afraid.”

“Is she in love with anybody?”

“That is a very difficult—­”

The girl wrote:  “He doesn’t know,” with a satisfaction apparently causeless.

“Is she a relative of yours, Mr. Gatewood?” very sweetly.

“No, Miss Southerland,” very positively.

“You—­you desire to marry her—­you say?”

“I do.  But I didn’t say it.”

She was silent; then: 

“What is her name?” in a low voice which started several agreeable thrills chasing one another over him.

“I—­I decline to answer,” he stammered.

“On what grounds, Mr. Gatewood?”

He looked her full in the eyes; suddenly he bent forward and gazed at the printed paper from which she had been apparently reading.

“Why, all those questions you are scaring me with are not there!” he exclaimed indignantly.  “You are making them up?”

“I—­I know, but”—­she was flushing furiously—­“but they are on the other forms—­some of them.  Can’t you see you are answering ‘Form K’?  That is a special form—­”