“What was Johnson talking to you about, that you both looked so earnest?” Mr. Jelnik wanted to know presently.

“Oh, just things; flowers and fruits and animals.”

“And people?”

“People always end by talking about people.”

“Johnson’s opinions are generally sound, because he himself is sound to the core,” said Mr. Jelnik, quietly.

“Miss Emmeline says he has got a limpid soul.  The Author says it’s really a sound liver.  However that may be, one couldn’t live in the same house with him without conceiving a real affection for him.  He is a very easy person to love.”

Mr. Jelnik’s eyebrows went up.  “Don’t love him too much, please, Sophy.  If you feel that you really ought to love somebody, love me.”  The golden lights were in his eyes.

At that moment I both loved and hated him.

“Mr. Jelnik,” said I, in as low a tone as his own, “it isn’t fair to talk to me like this.  You did what you did to save me from annoyance—­and—­and—­misunderstanding.  But you are perfectly free:  I have no idea of holding you to such an engagement, no, nor of feeling myself bound by it, either.”

“I understand, perfectly, Sophy,” he said, after a pause.  “And now, may I ask you one or two plain questions, please?”

“I think you may.”

“You never cared for Geddes?”

“Good heavens, no!  Besides, he—­”

“Wants Alicia?  That’s obvious.  But what about The Author?  I’m not enamored of him, myself, but he’s an immensely able and clever man.  How many brilliant social lights would be willing to shine at the head of his table!  What are you going to do about The Author, Sophy?”

“What are you going to do about the lady you are really in love with?” I countered.

“I’m waiting to find out,” said he, coolly.  “Answer my question, please:  Do you imagine you love him, Sophy?”

“It is not unpleasant to me that he should wish me to do so,” I admitted.

“I see.  You are trying to persuade yourself that you should accept him.”

“I am not growing younger,” I said, with an effort.  “Remember, too, that Alicia will be leaving me presently, and I shall then be utterly alone.  That is not a pleasing prospect—­not to a woman.”

“Nor to a man, either, but better that than a loveless marriage.”  He reflected for a moment.  “If you are sure you care for the man, tell him truthfully every incident of last night.  Otherwise, I do not feel like sharing my affairs with him; I do not want to drag Jessamine Hynds out of her grave to gratify his curiosity.  For he has the curiosity of a cat, along with the obstinacy of a mule.”

I smiled, wanly.  “I gather that I’m not to tell him anything.  What further?” I wanted to know, not without irony.

“This, then:  that you keep on being engaged to me.”

I looked at him incredulously.

“For the time being, Sophy, submit to my tentative claim.  If you decide to let your—­ah—­common sense induce you to make what must be called a brilliant marriage, tell me, and I will go at once.  In the meantime, Sophy, I am your friend, to whom your happiness is as dear as his own.  Will you believe that?”