John Raycroft laughed again as he tossed his napkin on top of the newspaper.

“My deepest commiserations, old chap,” he said. “It is a nasty affliction to be rich and titled and eligible-and to have been known since the tender age of twenty-one as a breaker of hearts. That fact only adds to your attractions, of course, at least as far as the gentler sex is concerned. But you are going to have to marry sooner or later. It is one of the obligations of your rank. Why not sooner?”

“But why not later?” Peter said hastily, picking up his knife and fork and tucking into what remained of his eggs and ham. “I am not like you, Raycroft. I cannot look upon a woman across a crowded ballroom one evening, recognize her as the one and only love of my life, court her devotedly to the exclusion of all others for a whole year, and then be content to betroth myself to her and wait for another year while she gallivants off to the ends of Europe.”

“To Vienna to be precise,” his friend said. “With her parents, who planned the treat for her aeons ago. And not for a full year, Whitleaf. They will be back next spring. We will be married before the summer is out. And one of these days you will know why I would wait three times as long if I had to. Your problem is that you are undiscriminating. You only have to look at a woman to fall in love with her. You fall in love with everyone-and therefore with no one.”

“There is safety in numbers.” Peter grinned reluctantly. “But I say, Raycroft-I do not exactly fall in love with women, you know. I just like them.”

He did too-perhaps fortunately. It was only love or any other deep commitment that he had cried off. But his liking for women-and for all people, come to that-had saved him from moving from babe in arms to cynic in the course of one ghastly day.