Janet.  I had it taken on purpose.

Carve.  “As to my tastes, I will only say that as a general rule they are quiet.  If the above seems in your line, I shall be obliged if you will write and send me particulars of yourself, with photographs.—­Yours truly, Janet cannot.”  Well, Mrs. Cannot, your letter is an absolute model.

Janet.  I suppose you did get dozens?

Carve.  Well——­By the way, what’s this type-written thing in the envelope?

Janet. (Looking at it.) It looks like a copy of your answer.

Carve.  Oh!

Janet.  If it isn’t a rude question, Mr. Shawn, why do you typewrite your letters?  It seems so—­what shall I say?—­public.

Carve. (Half to himself.) So thats the explanation of the typewriter.

Janet. (Puzzled.) I suppose it’s because you’re a private secretary.

Carve. (Equally puzzled.) Private secretary!  I—­shall we just glance through my reply? (Reads.) “My dear Mrs. Cannot, your letter inspires me with more confidence than any of the dozens of others I have received.” (They look at each other, smiling.) “As regards myself, I should state at once that I am and have been for many years private secretary, indeed I may say almost companion, to the celebrated painter.  Mr. Ilam Carve, whose magnificent pictures you are doubtless familiar with.”

Janet.  No, I’m not.

Carve.  Really.  “We have been knocking about England together for longer than I care to remember, and I personally am anxious for a change.  Our present existence is very expensive.  I feel the need of a home and the companionship of just such a woman as yourself.  Although a bachelor, I think I am not unfitted for the domestic hearth.  My age is forty.”  That’s a mistake of the typewriter.

Janet.  Oh!

Carve.  Forty-five it ought to be.

Janet.  Well, honestly, I shouldn’t have thought it.

Carve.  “My age is forty-five.  By a strange coincidence Mr. Carve has suggested to me that we set out for England to-morrow.  At Dover I will telegraph you with a rendezvous.  In great haste.  Till then, my dear Mrs. Cannot, believe me,” etc.

Janet.  You didn’t send a photograph.

Carve.  Perhaps I was afraid of prejudicing you in advance.

Janet. (Laughs.) Eh, Mr. Shawn!  There’s thousands of young gentlemen alive and kicking in London this minute that would give a great deal to be only half as good looking as you are.  And so you’re a bachelor?

Carve.  Oh, quite.

Janet.  Two bachelors, as you say, knocking about Europe together. (Carve laughs quietly but heartily to himself.) By the way, how is Mr. Carve?  I hope he’s better.

Carve.  Mr. Carve?...(Suddenly stops laughing.) Oh! (Lamely, casually.) He’s dead!