I did not know whether to be flattered or aggrieved by this avowal.

“You know,” she went on, her tone half apologetic, “the day after he came he told me who he was, and I wanted to stop the people we passed and inform them of the lion I was walking with.  And I was quite carried away by the honor of his attentions:  any girl would have been, you know.”

“I suppose so,” I assented.

“And I had heard and read so much of him, and I doted on his stories, and all that.  His heroes are divine, you must admit.  And, Mr. Crocker,” she concluded with a charming naivety, “I just made up my mind I would have him.”

“Woman proposes, and man disposes,” I laughed.  “He escaped in spite of you.”

She looked at me queerly.

“Only a jest,” I said hurriedly; “your escape is the one to be thankful for.  You might have married him, like the young woman in The Sybarites.  You remember, do you not, that the hero of that book sacrifices himself for the lady who adores him, but whom he has ceased to adore?”

“Yes, I remember,” she laughed; “I believe I know that book by heart.”

“Think of the countless girls he must have relieved of their affections before their eyes were opened,” I continued with mock gravity.  “Think of the charred trail he has left behind him.  A man of that sort ought to be put under heavy bonds not to break any more hearts.  But a kleptomaniac isn’t responsible, you understand.  And it isn’t worth while to bear any malice.”

“Oh, I don’t bear any malice now,” she said.  “I did at first, naturally.  But it all seems very ridiculous now I have had time to think it over.  I believe, Mr. Crocker, that I never really cared for him.”

“Simply an idol shattered this time,” I suggested, “and not a heart broken.”

“Yes, that’s it,” said she.

“I am glad to hear it,” said I, much pleased that she had taken such a sensible view.  “But you are engaged to him.”

“I was.”

“You have broken the engagement, then?”

“No, I—­haven’t,” she said.

“Then he has broken it?”

She did not appear to resent this catechism.

“That’s the strange part of it,” said Miss Trevor, “he hasn’t even thought it necessary.”

“It is clear, then, that you are still engaged to him,” said I, smiling at her blank face.

“I suppose I am,” she cried.  “Isn’t it awful?  What shall I do, Mr. Crocker?  You are so sensible, and have had so much experience.”

“I beg your pardon,” I remarked grimly.

“Oh, you know what I mean:  not that kind of experience, of course.  But breach of promise cases and that sort of thing.  I have a photograph of him with something written over it.”

“Something compromising?” I inquired.

“Yes, you would probably call it so,” she answered, reddening.  “But there is no need of my repeating it.  And then I have a lot of other things.  If I write to break off the engagement I shall lose dignity, and it will appear as though I had regrets.  I don’t wish him to think that, of all things.  What shall I do?”