Chloe called me “Tommy,” and made sisterly fun of my attempts to woo her.  With Devoe she was vastly more reserved.  He was the man of romance, one to stir her imagination and deepest feelings had her fancy leaned toward him.  I was closer to her, but standing in no glamour; I had the task before me of winning her in what seems to me the American way of fighting—­with cleanness and pluck and everyday devotion to break away the barriers of friendship that divided us, and to take her, if I could, between sunrise and dark, abetted by neither moonlight nor music nor foreign wiles.

Chloe gave no sign of bestowing her blithe affections upon either of us.  But one day she let out to me an inkling of what she preferred in a man.  It was tremendously interesting to me, but not illuminating as to its application.  I had been tormenting her for the dozenth time with the statement and catalogue of my sentiments toward her.

“Tommy,” said she, “I don’t want a man to show his love for me by leading an army against another country and blowing people off the earth with cannons.”

“If you mean that the opposite way,” I answered, “as they say women do, I’ll see what I can do.  The papers are full of this diplomatic row in Russia.  My people know some big people in Washington who are right next to the army people, and I could get an artillery commission and—­”

“I’m not that way,” interrupted Chloe.  “I mean what I say.  It isn’t the big things that are done in the world, Tommy, that count with a woman.  When the knights were riding abroad in their armor to slay dragons, many a stay-at-home page won a lonesome lady’s hand by being on the spot to pick up her glove and be quick with her cloak when the wind blew.  The man I am to like best, whoever he shall be, must show his love in little ways.  He must never forget, after hearing it once, that I do not like to have any one walk at my left side; that I detest bright-colored neckties; that I prefer to sit with my back to a light; that I like candied violets; that I must not be talked to when I am looking at the moonlight shining on water, and that I very, very often long for dates stuffed with English walnuts.”

“Frivolity,” I said, with a frown.  “Any well-trained servant would be equal to such details.”

“And he must remember,” went on Chloe, to remind me of what I want when I do not know, myself, what I want.”

“You’re rising in the scale,” I said.  “What you seem to need is a first-class clairvoyant.”

“And if I say that I am dying to hear a Beethoven sonata, and stamp my foot when I say it, he must know by that that what my soul craves is salted almonds; and he will have them ready in his pocket.”

“Now,” said I, “I am at a loss.  I do not know whether your soul’s affinity is to be an impresario or a fancy grocer.”

Chloe turned her pearly smile upon me.