“I won’t try any harder than I have so far,” said Leighton, grimly.  “This is what I came to say to you.  My boy wants to marry you.  I don’t want him to.  I might as well confess that during the last ten minutes I’ve given up any ideas I had of buying you off.  I’m not worth a million.”

“You poor dear,” said Folly, “don’t worry any longer.  I don’t want to marry Lew.  Ask me something else.”

“I will,” said Leighton.  “It’s just this.  Chuck Lew over.  Get rid of him.  It will hurt him, I know.  I can understand that better now than I did before.  But I’d rather hurt him a bit that way than see him on the rack.”

“Thanks,” said Folly; “but, you see, I can’t get rid of him.  You can’t get rid of something you haven’t got.”  She smiled.  “Don’t you see?  I’ll have to get him before I can oblige you.”

“Don’t bother,” said Leighton.  “A clever woman like you often gets rid of something she hasn’t got.  Look here, you don’t want to marry Lew, and, what’s more, you don’t love him.  You couldn’t marry him if you wanted to.  You know it isn’t in you to marry any man.  But I tell you, Folly, if it really was in you truly to marry Lew, I’d give in and bless you.  I wouldn’t have yesterday, but I would to-day; because, my dear, you are simply made up of charms.  The only thing missing is a soul.”

“You talk better than Lew—­not so silly,” remarked Folly.  “But what’s the use of all this palaver about marrying?  I’ve told you I don’t want to marry him.”

“Well, what do you want, then?”

“I want Lew,” said Folly, smiling.  She sat up, and drew her knees into the circle of her arms.  “He’s an awfully nice boy.  So like you, Marie says.  I just want him to have. You know.”

“Yes,” said Leighton, dryly.  “Well, you can’t have him.”

“Can’t have him?” repeated Folly, straightening.  “Why not?”

“Because I don’t want you to.”

“But why?”

“Well,” said Leighton, “I don’t believe in that sort of thing.”

“Oh, oh!” cried Folly, “now you’re trying to make me laugh again!  By the way, are you Mr. Grapes Leighton?”

“I am,” said Leighton, flushing.

Folly called the maid.

“Marie,” she said, “bring me my scrap-book—­the oldest one.”

Leighton moved back to the chair and sat down with a resigned air.  Marie brought in a huge scrap-book, and placed it on a bracket tea-tray that swung in over the bed.  Folly opened the book and turned the leaves slowly.  “Here we are,” she said at last, and read, mimicking each speaker to a turn: 

“‘Counsel:’  ’Please, Mrs. Bing, just answer yes or no; did you or did you not meet Mr. Leighton in the corridor at three o’clock in the morning?

“‘Mrs. Bing:’  ’Well, sir, yes; sir, that is, please your Honor [turning to the judge], I did meet Mr. Leighton in the collidoor, but ’e was eating of a bunch of grapes that innercent you’d ha’ knowed at once as ’ee ‘adn’t been up to no mischief.’ [Laughter.]