"I stopped dead in the middle of the pavement, and faced him. 'Don't you love her?' I said.

"'Love her!' he repeated, in the utmost astonishment; 'what on earth is there in her to love? She's nothing but a bad translation of a modern French comedy, with the interest omitted.'

"This 'tired' me--to use an Americanism. 'You came to me a month ago,' I said, 'raving over her, and talking about being the dirt under her feet and kissing her doorstep.'

"He turned very red. 'I wish, my dear Mac,' he said, 'you would pay me the compliment of not mistaking me for that detestable little cad with whom I have the misfortune to be connected. You would greatly oblige me if next time he attempts to inflict upon you his vulgar drivel you would kindly kick him downstairs.'

"'No doubt,' he added, with a sneer, as we walked on, 'Miss Trevior would be his ideal. She is exactly the type of woman, I should say, to charm that type of man. For myself, I do not appreciate the artistic and literary female.'

"'Besides,' he continued, in a deeper tone, 'you know my feelings. I shall never care for any other woman but Elizabeth.'

"'She,' he sighed, 'is breaking her heart for Smith.'

"'Why don't you tell her you are Smith?' I asked.