It was two days after Jane promised to marry Frederick Towne that Evans bought a Valentine for her.

The shops were full of valentines—many of them of paper lace—the fragile old-fashioned things that had become a new fashion. They had forget-me-nots on them and hearts with golden arrows, and fat pink cupids.

Evans found it hard to choose. He stood before them, smiling. And he could see Jane smile as she read the enchanting verse of the one he finally selected:

As he walked up F Street to his office, his heart was light. It was one of the lovely days that hint of spring. Old Washingtonians know that such weather does not last—that March winds must blow, and storms must come. But they grasp the joy of the moment—masquerade in carnival spirit—buy flowers from the men at the street corners—sweep into their favorite confectioner’s to order cool drinks, the women seek their milliner’s and come forth bonneted in spring beauty—the men drive to the links—and look things over.

Oh, what a world it is—this world of Washington when Winter welcomes, for the moment, Spring!

Evans wished that Jane were there to see. To let him buy flowers for her—ices. He wondered if the time would come when he might buy her a spring hat. Well, why not? If things went like this with him! He knew he was getting back. He could see it in the eyes of women. Where once there had been pity—was now coquettish challenge. He was having invitations. He accepted only a few, but they came increasingly.

And clients came. Not many, but enough to point the way to success. He had sold more of the old books. His mother’s milk farm was becoming a fashionable fad.

Edith Towne had helped to bring Mrs. Follette’s wares before her friends. At all hours of the day they drove out, Edith with them. “It is such an adorable place,” she told Evans, “and your—mother! Isn’t she absolutely herself? Selling milk with that empress air of hers. I simply love her.”

Evans liked Edith Towne immensely. Even more than Baldy he divined her loneliness. “In that great house there isn’t a soul for real companionship. Towne’s eaten up with egotism, and the cousin is an echo.”

Edith asked herself out to dinner very often. “It is perfect with just the four of us,” she told Mrs. Follette, and that lady, flattered almost to tears, said, “Telephone whenever you can come and take pot-luck.”

Edith had planned to have dinner with them to-night. Evans took an early train to Sherwood. When he reached home Edith and his mother were on the porch and the Towne car stood before the gate.

“I’ve got to go back,” Edith explained. “Uncle Fred came in from Chicago an hour or two ago and telephoned that he must see me.”

“Baldy will be broken-hearted,” Evans told her, smiling.

“I couldn’t get him up. I tried, but they said he had left the office. I thought I’d bring him out with me.” She kissed Mrs. Follette. “I’ll come again soon, dear lady. And you must tell me when you are tired of me.”

Evans went to the car with her, and came back to find his mother in an exalted mood. “Now if you could marry a girl like Edith Towne.”

“Edith,” he laughed lightly. “Mother, are you blind? She and Baldy are mad about each other.”

“Of course she isn’t serious. A boy like that.”

“Isn’t she? I’ll say she is.” Evans went charging up the stairs to dress for dinner. “I’ll be down presently.”

“Baldy may be late; we won’t wait for him,” his mother called after him.

The dining-room at Castle Manor had a bare waxed floor, an old drop-leaf table of dark mahogany, deer’s antlers over the mantel, and some candles in sconces.

Old Mary did her best to follow the rather formal service on which Mrs. Follette insisted. The food was simple, but well-cooked, and there was always a soup and a salad.

It was not until they reached the salad course that they heard the sound of Baldy’s car. He burst in at the front door, as if he battered it down, stormed through the hall, and entered the dining-room like a whirlwind.

“Jane’s going to be married,” he cried, “and she’s going to marry Frederick Towne!”

Evans half-rose from his chair. Everything turned black and he sat down. There was a loud roaring in his ears. It was like taking ether—with the darkness and the roaring.

When things cleared he found that neither his mother nor Baldy had noticed his agitation. His mother was asking quick questions. “Who told you? Does Edith know?”

Baldy threw himself in a chair. “Mr. Towne got back from Chicago this afternoon. Called me up and said he wanted me to come over at once to his office. I went, and he gave me a letter from Jane. Said he thought it was better for him to bring it, and then he could explain.”

He threw the note across the table to Mrs. Follette. “Will you read it? I’m all in. Drove like the dickens coming out. Towne wanted me to go home with him to dinner. Wanted to begin the brother-in-law business right away before I got my breath. But I left. Oh, the darned peacock!” Jane would have known Baldy’s mood. The tempest-gray eyes, the chalk-white face.

“But don’t you like it, Baldy?”

“Like it? Oh, read that note. Does it sound like Jane? I ask you, does it sound like Jane?”

It did not sound in the least like Jane. Not the Jane that Evans and Baldy knew.

“Baldy, dear. Mr. Towne will tell you all about it. I am going to marry him as soon as Judy is better. I know you will be surprised, but Mr. Towne is just wonderful, and it will be such a good thing for all of us. Mr. Towne will tell you how dreadfully ill Judy is. He wants to do everything for her, and that will be such a help to Bob.

“And so we will live happy ever after. Oh, you blessed boy, you know how I love you. Send a wire, and say that it is all right. Tell Evans and Mrs. Follette. They are my dearest friends and will always be.”

She signed herself:

“Loving you more than ever,
“Jane.”

Mrs. Follette looked up from the letter, took off her reading glasses, and said complacently, “I think it is very nice for her.” The dear lady quite basked in the thought of her intimate friendship with the fiancÉe of Frederick Towne.

But the two men did not bask.

“Nice, for Jane?” they threw the sentences at her.

“Oh, can’t you see why she has done it?” Baldy demanded. He caught up the note, pointing an accusing finger as he read certain phrases. “It will be such a good thing for all of us ... he wants to do everything for her ... it will be such a help to Bob....”

“Doesn’t that show,” Baldy demanded furiously, “she’s doing it because Judy and Bob are hard up and Towne can help—I know Jane.”

Evans knew her. Hadn’t he said to her not long ago, “You’d tie up the broken wings of every wounded bird.... You’d give crutches to the lame, and food to the hungry....”

“I don’t see why you should object,” Mrs. Follette was saying; “it will be a fine thing for her. She will be Mrs. Frederick Towne!”

“I’d rather have her Jane Barnes for the rest of her life. Do you know Towne’s reputation? Any woman can flatter him into a love affair. A fat Lothario.” Baldy did not mince the words.

“But he hasn’t married any of them,” said Mrs. Follette triumphantly. She held to the ancient and honorable theory that the woman a man marries need not worry about past love affairs since she had been paid the compliment of at least legal permanency.

“But Jane,” Baldy said, brokenly, “you know her. She’s a child, a darling child. With all her dreams——” He ran his fingers through his hair with the effect of a ruffled eagle.

Evans’ lips were dry. “What did you say to Towne?”

“Oh, what could I say? That I was surprised, and all that. Something about hoping they’d be happy. Then I beat it and got here as fast as I could. I had to talk it over with you people or—burst.” His eyes met Evans’ and found there the sympathy he sought. “It’s a rotten trick.”

“Yes,” said Evans, “rotten.”

“I think,” said Mrs. Follette, “that you must both see it is best.” Yet her voice was troubled. Through her complacency had penetrated the thought of what Jane’s engagement might mean to Evans. Yet, it might, on the other hand, be a blessing in disguise. There were other women, richer—who would help him in his career. And in time he would forget Jane.

Old Mary gave them their coffee. “Shall we walk for a bit, Baldy?” Evans said, when at last they rose.

The two men made their way towards the pine grove. The twilight sky was a deep purple with a thin sickle of a moon and a breathless star.

And there in the little grove under the purple sky Evans said to Baldy, “I love her.”

“I know. I wish to God you had her.”

“Perhaps she has chosen wisely. Towne can make things—easy.”

“But you should hear what Edith says about him. He’s an old grouch around the house. And you know Janey? Like a bird—singing.”

Like a bird singing!

“Baldy,” Evans said, “I don’t agree with you that it was—the money. That may have helped in her decision. But I think she cares——”

“For Towne—nonsense.”

“It isn’t nonsense. She knows nothing of love. She may have taken the shadow for the substance. And he can be very—charming.” It wrung his heart to say it. But almost with clairvoyance he saw the truth.

When they returned to the house Baldy found a message from Edith. He was to call her up.

“Uncle Frederick has just told me,” she said, “that Jane is to be my aunt. Isn’t it joyful?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Why not?”

“Oh, Towne’s all right. But not for Jane.”

“I see. But he’s really in love with her, poor old duck. Talked about it all through dinner. He’s going to try awfully hard to make her happy.”“Then you approve?”

He heard her gay laugh over the wire. “It will be nice—to have you—in the family. I’ll be your niece-in-law.”

“You’ll be nothing of the kind.”

“You can’t help being—Uncle Baldy. Isn’t that—delicious? And now, will you come in to-night and sit by my fire? Uncle Frederick is out.”

“I’ve sat too often by your fire.”

“Too often for your own peace of mind? I know that. And I’m glad of it.” Again he heard a ripple of laughter.

“It isn’t a thing to laugh at.”

She hesitated, then said in a different tone, “I am not laughing. But I want you by my fire to-night.”

It was late when Evans went up-stairs. He had spent the evening with his mother, discussing with her some matters where his legal knowledge helped. They did not speak of Jane. Their avoidance of the subject showed their preoccupation with it. But neither dared approach it.

On the bedside table in Evans’ room lay the valentine he had bought for Jane. There it was, with its cupids and bleeding hearts—its forget-me-nots—and golden darts.

Of course he could not send it now. He couldn’t ever send another valentine to Jane. She belonged to Towne.

It didn’t seem credible. It was one of the things—like war—that men refused to believe could ever happen. Yet it had happened.

After this Jane would be out of his life—utterly. It was all very well to talk of friendship. But he wouldn’t be her friend. He didn’t want to see her. He didn’t want to hear her voice. He thought he should die when he had to meet her as Mrs. Frederick Towne.

But what was he going to do without her? What...?

He paced the room restlessly. Ahead of him had been always the hope that he might win her. And now, she was won, and not by him. It was—unthinkable.

His excitement increased. The valentine seemed to mock him as it lay there fragile in its loveliness.

He reached out his hand for it and tore it into shreds. Paper lace!... Paper lace!...