“You’ll never have a chance as long as she’s around,” he observed, smoking father’s cigar at intervals.  “They’re afraid of you, and that’s flat.  It’s your Eyes.  That’s what got me, anyhow.”  He blue a smoke ring and sat back with his legs crossed.  “Funny, isn’t it?” he said.  “Here we are, snug as weavils in a cotton thing-un-a-gig, and only a week ago there was nothing between us but to brick walls.  Hot in here, don’t you think?”

“Only a week!” I said.  “Tom, I’ve somthing to tell you.  That is the nice part of being engaged—­to tell things that one would otherwise bury in one’s own Bosom.  I shall have no secrets from you from henceforward.”

So I told him about the car and how we could drive together in it, and no one would know it was mine, although I would tell the Familey later on, when to late to return it.  He said little, but looked at me and kept on smoking, and was not as excited as I had expected, although interested.

But in the midst of my Narative he rose quickly and observed: 

“Bab, I’m poizoned!”

I then perceived that he was pale and hagard.  I rose to my feet, and thinking it might be the cigar, I asked him if he would care for a peice of chocolate cake to take the taste away.  But to my greif he refused very snappishly and without a Farewell slamed out of the house, leaving his hat and so forth in the hall.

A bitter night ensued.  For I shall admit that terrable thoughts filled my mind, although how perpetrated I knew not.  Would those who loved me stoop to such depths as to poizon my afianced?  And if so, whom?

The very thought was sickning.

I told Jane the next morning, but she pretended to beleive that the cigar had been to strong for him, and that I should remember that, although very good-hearted, he was a mere child.  But, if poizon, she suggested Hannah.

That day, although unerved from anxiety, I took the Arab out alone, having only Jane with me.  Except that once I got into reverce instead of low geer, and broke a lamp on a Gentleman behind, I had little or no trouble, although having one or to narrow escapes owing to putting my foot on the gas throttle instead of the brake.

It was when being backed off the pavment by to Policemen and a man from a milk wagon, after one of the aforsaid mistakes, that I first saw he who was to bring such wrechedness to me.

Jane had got out to see how much milk we had spilt—­we had struck the milk wagon—­and I was getting out my check book, because the man was very nasty and insisted on having my name, when I first saw him.  He had stopped and was looking at the gutter, which was full of milk.  Then he looked at me.

“How much damages does he want?” he said in a respectful tone.

“Twenty dollars,” I replied, not considering it flirting to merely reply in this manner.

The Stranger then walked over to the milkman and said: