“I’m thinking of doing that very thing,” he laughed.  “But I’m glad I found the rose in that queer old waste-basket first.”

“Not too much like a rose, sometimes,” she said.  “I think this morning I’m a little like some of the old doors up on the third floor:  I feel rather unhinged, Mr. Corliss.”

“You don’t look it, Miss Madison!”

“I didn’t sleep very well.”  She bestowed upon him a glance which transmuted her actual explanation into, “I couldn’t sleep for thinking of you.”  It was perfectly definite; but the acute gentleman laughed genially.

“Go on with you!” he said.

Her eyes sparkled, and she joined laughter with him.  “But it’s true:  you did keep me awake.  Besides, I had a serenade.”

“Serenade?  I had an idea they didn’t do that any more over here.  I remember the young men going about at night with an orchestra sometimes when I was a boy, but I supposed——­”

“Oh, it wasn’t much like that,” she interrupted, carelessly.  “I don’t think that sort of thing has been done for years and years.  It wasn’t an orchestra—­just a man singing under my window.”

“With a guitar?”

“No.”  She laughed a little.  “Just singing.”

“But it rained last night,” said Corliss, puzzled.

“Oh, he wouldn’t mind that!”

“How stupid of me!  Of course, he wouldn’t.  Was it Richard Lindley?”

“Never!”

“I see.  Yes, that was a bad guess:  I’m sure Lindley’s just the same steady-going, sober, plodding old horse he was as a boy.  His picture doesn’t fit a romantic frame—­singing under a lady’s window in a thunderstorm!  Your serenader must have been very young.”

“He is,” said Cora.  “I suppose he’s about twenty-three; just a boy—­and a very annoying one, too!”

Her companion looked at her narrowly.  “By any chance, is he the person your little brother seemed so fond of mentioning—­Mr. Vilas?”

Cora gave a genuine start.  “Good heavens!  What makes you think that?” she cried, but she was sufficiently disconcerted to confirm his amused suspicion.

“So it was Mr. Vilas,” he said.  “He’s one of the jilted, of course.”

“Oh, `jilted’!” she exclaimed.  “All the wild boys that a girl can’t make herself like aren’t `jilted,’ are they?”

“I believe I should say—­yes,” he returned.  “Yes, in this instance, just about all of them.”

“Is every woman a target for you, Mr. Corliss?  I suppose you know that you have a most uncomfortable way of shooting up the landscape.”  She stirred uneasily, and moved away from him to the other end of the bench.

“I didn’t miss that time,” he laughed.  “Don’t you ever miss?”

He leaned quickly toward her and answered in a low voice:  “You can be sure I’m not going to miss anything about you.”

It was as if his bending near her had been to rouge her.  But it cannot be said that she disliked his effect upon her; for the deep breath she drew in audibly, through her shut teeth, was a signal of delight; and then followed one of those fraught silences not uncharacteristic of dialogues with Cora.