Since Stanley Cochrane noted a wee moue of apparent regret that he should seem to be paying attention to matters, other than her words, and since a slow flush arose in the face of the pretty Marion, his brown eyes became immediately profound, as if, though fixed upon her person, they were in reality just the windows of the pondering mind which she had aroused by her reflections.

“Er-I was thinking, Maro-“ he began.

“Maro,” she murmured pleased. “No one else calls me that. I think I rather like it.”

“A rich thing and mine own,” he observed modestly. “I feel that I must have my own copyrighted cognomens for those of whom I am especially fond.”

“Very dear and very flattering of you,” said the girl, jerking her pretty head in a pseudo-curtesy restricted by her posture.

“I think up dainty names for all the few I love.”

“Oh, love! On the third day of our acquaintance?” she smiled gently but with no coquetry whatever. “’Fond’ was nice, but ‘love’!”

“Do you discard the proffered and genuine affection of your brother?” he inquired sternly. “Are there no longer hearts in the young girls of America? In that case, woe be upon this frigid and unhappy land!”

“Of course we have hearts. I have a nice warm one-but it’s not on my sleeve, even when I wear a sleeve. I’m quite prepared to-yes, even love-my brother. I’ve always wanted a brother and I think you’ll do nicely. But, well, I guess it was the way you said ‘love’ that jarred me just the least bit.”

“Be that as it may,” he said hastily, with a swift look into the clear and candid gray eyes, “I suppose a fellow’s voice may slip as well as his foot. But, if I had known you were so sensitive to intonations, I’d have telegraphed what I wanted to say. The fact is, nevertheless, that-what was it I was going to say? Oh, yes-I had a sweet name for your sister, Mildred. I called her Mildew. But do you suppose she appreciated the poesy of it?”