It was not in me to doubt him.  “Yes,” I said.  “And if—­the lady you told me about—­you understand—­you will tell me, too, will you not?  I should like to know, for your happiness is as much to me as mine could possibly be to you.”

“That’s the most promising thing you’ve said yet,” he said.  “All right, Sophy:  the minute I find out she cares more for me than she does for anybody else, I shall certainly let you know.  In the meanwhile, don’t let being engaged bear too heavily on your spirits. I find it very pleasant and exhilarating!”

“I don’t think you ought to talk like that,” I demurred.

“I can’t help it:  I never was engaged before, and it goes to my tongue.”

“I never was, either.  But it doesn’t go to mine,” I reminded him, with dignity.

“Sophy, you are the only woman in the world who can reproach a man with her nose and get away with it,” he said irrelevantly.  “You have the most eloquent little nose, Sophy!”

I looked at him reprovingly.

“I adore being engaged to you, Sophy,” said he, unabashed.  “Being engaged to you has a naive freshness that enchants me.  It’s romantic, it has the sharp tang of uncertainty, the zest of high adventure.  Think how exciting it’s going to be to wake o’ mornings thinking:  ‘Here is a whole magic day to be engaged to Sophy in!’ By the way, would you mind addressing me as ‘Nicholas’?  It is customary under the circumstances, I believe.”

“I do not like the name of Nicholas.”

“I feared so, seeing the extreme care with which you avoid it.  That is why I suggest that you should immediately begin to use it.  Practice makes perfect.  Observe with what ease I manage to say ‘Sophy’ already,” he said airily.  “I’m glad your hair’s just that blonde, and soft, Sophy.  I couldn’t possibly be engaged to a woman who didn’t have hair like yours.”

I looked at his, and said with conviction: 

“How absurd!  Black hair is incomparably more beautiful!”

His eyes danced.

“Sophy!” said he, in a thrilling whisper, “Sophy, The Author’s hair is brindle!”

I got up and incontinently left him.  And I saw with stern joy how Mrs. Scarboro again seized upon and made him listen to tales of his grandfather, until in desperation he fled to the piano, and played Hungarian music with such effect that even The Author was moved to rapture.

“Jelnik!” said The Author, enthusiastically, “I shall put you in my next book.  Gad, man, what a magnificent scoundrel I shall make of you!” A remark which scandalized Mrs. Scarboro and startled my dear old lady, but didn’t phase Mr. Jelnik.

I found myself growing more and more confounded and confused.  Was I, or wasn’t I, engaged to a man who had never asked me to marry him?  In the vernacular, I didn’t know where I was at any more.

Alicia added to this confusion.

“Sophy,” said she, some time later, “isn’t it just possible you misunderstood Mr. Jelnik?  About his being in love with somebody else, I mean.”