Ethan finished his second cigarette and tossed it hissing into the pool. The nearest swan immediately paddled over to investigate. Ethan sighed exasperatedly.

“Go ahead, then, you old idiot!” he muttered. “You won’t like it any better than you liked the last one; they’re out of the same box; but try it if you want to. There, I told you so! Oh, that’s it; blame me now! Blessed if you aren’t almost human!”

He looked for the twentieth time toward where the corner of the white pergola gleamed through the trees and for the twentieth time turned his gaze disappointedly away again. He had been there almost three-quarters of an hour, and he wasn’t going to stay another minute! If she didn’t want to come, all right! Only she wouldn’t get her handkerchief if she didn’t! He had begun to doubt this morning whether she had dropped that article on purpose, as he had suspected yesterday. If it had been an accident she had probably returned already and searched for it, and he could not base his hopes of seeing her on the score of the handkerchief. It was quite evident, anyhow, that she wasn’t coming. That farewell remark of hers which he had translated to his own liking meant nothing, after all. He would throw his things into his bag and go on to Stillhaven after dinner. He had been a comical ass to fool around here like this tagging after a girl who didn’t want to be bothered with him and risking dyspepsia at the Inn! And what the deuce was he thinking about women for, anyway? Hadn’t he taken a solemn vow on the occasion of his first, last and only affair to leave them severely alone? He grinned reminiscently.

That had been a desperate affair, brief and tragic. It had occurred in his freshman year. She was a “saleslady” in a florist’s shop on the Avenue. She had cheeks like one of the bridesmaid roses she sold, a tip-tilted nose, sparkling gray eyes and a mass of black hair which stood up from her forehead in a mighty rolling billow and smelled headily of violet perfume when she pinned a carnation to his coat. It had been love at first sight with Ethan, and he had seldom appeared in public without a flower in his button-hole. He remembered with something between a shudder and a sigh the exaltation of pride and joy with which he had accompanied her to the theatre that first time! When he had returned from his Christmas vacation to find her engaged to the red-haired drug-clerk on the next corner he had promptly become a confirmed misogynist. During the seven years which had elapsed between that time and this he had relented somewhat, had gone through more than one mild flirtation and had kept his heart. There had been so many, many other things to occupy him that love had remained unconsidered. And now, what was he doing here, sitting in a canoe in a lily pond when he ought of right to be at Stillhaven helping Vincent sail the “Sea Lark” in the club races? Wasn’t he making a fool of himself again? Then something white moved toward him between the trees and the question went unanswered.

“I think I must have lost a handkerchief here yesterday,” she announced by way of greeting and explanation.

“A handkerchief?” he cried. “Let me help you search.”

“Oh, don’t bother! It doesn’t matter, of course, only—I thought that if it was here I’d get it.”

But Ethan was already out of the canoe.

“Er—what was it like?” he asked.

“Rather plain, I think; just a narrow lace edge.”

They looked diligently over the grass. Plainly it was not there. She raised her head, brushed a stray lock of hair from her forehead and laughed.

“I’m always losing them,” she said apologetically.

“Perhaps,” he suggested, “it might be well to offer a reward.”

“A splendid idea!” she cried. “We’ll post it on this tree here. Have you a piece of paper? And a pencil?”

“Both.” He tore the front from an envelope and handed her his pencil. She accepted them and set herself down on the grass.

“Oh, dear, what shall I write on? The canoe paddle? Thanks. Now let me see. What shall I say?”

“You must start by writing ‘Lost!’ in big letters at the top. That’s it.” Ethan’s rÔle of adviser carried delicious privileges. It allowed him to kneel quite close behind her and observe the pink lobe of one small ear from a position of disquieting proximity.

“And then what?”

“I beg your pardon!” he said, with a start. “Why, then—er—let me see. ‘Lost’——”

“I have that,” she said demurely.

“A small handkerchief belonging——”

“How did you know it was small?” she asked with smiling interest.

“They always are,” he answered. “Where was I?”

“‘A small handkerchief belonging’——”

“That doesn’t sound quite shipshape. Let’s try again. ‘Lost, a small lady’s’——”

They laughed together as though it was a most novel and excellent joke.

“I don’t care to advertise my smallness,” she objected.

“Well, once more now. ‘Lost, a small handkerchief with a funny little lace border and an embroidered D in the left-hand lower corner. Finder——’”

“An embroidered D?” she asked puzzledly.

“Wasn’t it a D?”

“Perhaps it was,” she allowed. She leaned a little farther forward, for the brief glance she had cast toward him had revealed the fact that his head was startlingly near. “And—and the reward?” she asked a trifle constrainedly.

“Finder may keep same for his honesty!”

“But—but that’s ridiculous!” she cried. “What’s the use of advertising at all?”

“To save the finder from committing theft,” he answered soberly. “Think of his conscience!”

“How do you know it’s a ‘him’?” she asked carelessly.

“I used the masculine gender merely in a—er—general way.”

“Oh!”

“Yes. Have you written that?”

“No, what’s the good of it? If the finder is dishonest enough to keep it he may look after his own conscience!”

“That’s unchristian,” he answered sadly.

“I’ll do this, though,” she said. “If the finder will produce it I will allow him to keep it on one condition.”

“And that?” he asked suspiciously.

“If there is a D on it he may have it. Otherwise——”

The finder produced it, unfolded it and looked at the “left-hand lower corner.”

“Well?” she asked, smilingly. He frowned.

“It—it looks more like an H,” he answered.

“It is an H! Now may I have it?”

“But it ought to be a D,” he said. “H stands neither for Devereux, Laura, nor Clytie.”

“I never said it did!”

“This is quite plainly not your property,” he went on, refolding it. “Being unable to find the owner, I shall retain possession of it.”

“But it’s mine!” she cried.

“Yours? What does the H stand for, then?”

She hesitated and flushed.

“I never said my name was Laura Devereux,” she murmured.

“No, but you see I happen to know that it is.” He replaced the handkerchief in his pocket. Then he reached forward and took the paper and envelope from her lap. “I shall write an advertisement myself,” he said.

She watched him while he did so, biting her lip in smiling vexation. When it was done he passed the composition across to her.

“What’s the reward?” she asked. He shook his head thoughtfully.

“I haven’t decided yet. Something—rather nice, I fancy.”

A faint flush crept into her cheeks and she turned her gaze toward the pool.

“It is much cooler to-day,” she said.

“Yes, last night’s thunder-storm cleared the air,” he replied, in a similar conversational tone. She glanced at the tiny watch hanging at her belt. Then she murmured something and sprang lightly to her feet before Ethan could go to her assistance.

“You are not going?” he asked in dismay.

She nodded gravely.

“But it’s quite early!”

“I don’t think it right to associate with dishonesty,” she answered severely. “You know very well that that handkerchief is mine!”

“Yes, I do,” he answered. “That is, I saw you drop it yesterday. Probably it belongs really to someone else. Unless—” he smiled—“unless you bought it at a bargain sale? In which case the initial didn’t really matter, I suppose.”

“Will you give it to me?” she asked unsmilingly.

“But it’s such a little thing!” he pleaded earnestly. “You have so many more that surely the loss of this one won’t inconvenience you. And I—I’ve taken a fancy to it.”

“That’s a convenient excuse for theft!” she answered.

“It’s the only one I have to offer,” he replied humbly.

“But—it’s so absurd!” she cried impatiently. “What can you want with it?”

He was silent a moment. She glanced furtively at his face and then moved a few steps toward the house.

“I wonder if you really want me to tell you?” he mused.

“Tell me what?” she asked uneasily.

“Why I want to keep it.”

“I don’t think I am—especially interested,” she answered coldly. “Are you going to return it?”

“Maybe; in a moment. You don’t want to hear the reason?”

“I—Oh, well, what is the reason?” she asked impatiently.

“A very simple one. As a handkerchief merely it doesn’t attract me especially. I have seen more beautiful ones, I think——”

“Well!” she gasped.

“My desire to keep it arises from the simple fact that it is yours, Clytie.”

She strove to meet his gaze with one exhibiting the proper amount of haughty resentment. But the attempt was a failure. After the first glance her eyes fell, the blood crept into her face and she turned quickly away.

“May I keep it, please?” he asked softly.

She went swiftly up the little slope under the trees.

“Clytie!” he called. She paused, without turning, to listen.

“May I keep it?”

Clytie dropped her head and passed quickly from sight.