Very much to his surprise, Mr. Hickey found himself disposed to hark back to the day on which he had so unexpectedly parted company with Miss Tripp on the corner of Tremont and Washington Streets. He had intended, he told himself, to order for their luncheon broiled chicken, macaroons and pink ice-cream, as being articles presumably suited to the feminine taste. He remembered vaguely to have heard Miss Tripp mention pink ice-cream, and all women liked the wing of a chicken. Was the unknown "friend" with whom she had made that previous engagement, a man or a woman? he wondered, deciding with the well-known egoism of his sex in favour of the first mentioned. The man was a cad, anyway, Mr. Hickey was positive—though he could not have particularised his reasons for this summary conclusion. And being a cad, he was not worthy of Miss Tripp's slightest consideration.

If he had the thing to do over again, he told himself, he would sneak up boldly to Miss Tripp concerning his own rights in the matter; he would remind her—humorously of course—that possession was said to be nine points in the law; and that he, Hickey, was disposed to do battle for the tenth point with any man living.

He grew quite hot and indignant as he pictured his rival sitting opposite Miss Tripp in some second-class restaurant, ordering chicken and ice-cream. As like as not the other fellow wouldn't know that she preferred her ice-cream pink, and——.

Mr. Hickey pulled himself up with a jerk at this point in his meditations and told himself flatly that he was a fool, and that further, when he came right down to it, he did not care a copper cent about Miss Tripp's luncheons, past, present or to come. What he really wanted to know—and this desire gained poignant force and persistence as the days passed—was whether he had said or done anything to offend the lady. He remembered that he had accidentally jabbed Miss Tripp's hat with his umbrella, and very likely put a feather or two out of business. That would be likely to annoy any woman. Perhaps she had felt that his awkwardness was unpardonable, and his further acquaintance undesirable.

Under the goad of this latter uncomfortable suspicion—in two weeks' time it had grown into a conviction—he actually made his way into a milliner's shop and inquired boldly for "feathers."

"What sort of feathers, sir?" inquired the cool, bright-eyed young person who came forward to ask the needs of the tall, professional-looking man wearing glasses and exceedingly shabby brown gloves.

"Why—er—just feathers; the sort ladies wear on hats."

The young person smiled condescendingly. "Something in plumes, sir?" she asked, "or was it coque or marabout you wished to see?"

"Something handsome. Long—er—and not too curly."

The young woman produced a box and opened it.

"How do you like this, sir? Only twenty dollars. Was it for an old lady or a young lady?"

"Er—a young lady," said Mr. Hickey hastily. "That is to say, she——"

"Your wife, perhaps?" and the young person smiled intelligently. "How would your lady like something like this?" And she held up a sweeping plume of a dazzling shade of green. "This is quite the latest swell thing from Paris, sir; can be worn on either a black or a white hat."

Mr. Hickey reflected. "I—er—think the feathers were black," he observed meditatively; "but I like colours myself. Red—er—is a handsome colour in feathers." He eyed the young person defiantly. "I always liked a good red," he asserted firmly.

"These new cerise shades are all the rage now in Paris, N'Yo'k an' Boston," agreed the young person, promptly pulling out another box. "Look at this grand plume in shaded tints, sir! Isn't it just perfectly stunning?"

It was. Mr. Hickey surveyed it in rapt admiration, as the young person dangled it alluringly within range of his short-sighted vision.

"I'd want two of those," he murmured.

"Forty-eight, seventy, sir; reduced from fifty dollars; shall I send them?"

"I—er—I'll take them with me," said the engineer, pulling out a roll of bills.

"Women's hats must be singularly expensive," he mused for the first time in his professional career, as he strode away down the street, gingerly bearing his late purchase in a pasteboard box. It had not before occurred to Mr. Hickey that mere "feathers" were so costly. He trembled as he reflected upon the ravages committed by his unthinking umbrella. Anyway, these particular plumes were handsome enough to replace the ones he had undoubtedly ruined. He grew eager to behold Miss Tripp's face under the cerise plumes. But how was this to be brought about? Obviously this new perplexity demanded time for consideration. He carried the plumes home to his boarding-place, therefore, and stored them away on the top shelf of his closet, where they were discovered on the following day by his landlady, who was in the habit of keeping what she was pleased to term "a motherly eye" upon the belongings of her unattached boarders.

"Well, I mus' say!" exclaimed the worthy Mrs. McAlarney to herself, when her amazed eyes fell upon the contents of the strange box, purporting to have come from a fashionable milliner's shop; "if that ain't the greatest! Whatever's got into Mr. Hickey?"

But the cerise plumes tarried in undeserved obscurity on the shelf of Mr. Hickey's clothes-press for exactly fifteen days thereafter; then they suddenly disappeared.

In the meantime their purchaser continued to indulge in unaccustomed reflections from day to day. He made no effort during all this time to see Miss Tripp; but on the fifteenth day he chanced to meet Sam Brewster as he was about entering the business men's lunchroom, which Mr. Hickey still frequented as in former days.

"Hello, old man!" was Sam's greeting. "Where have you been keeping yourself all these weeks? I thought you'd be around some evening to see us."

"Er—I've been thinking of it," admitted Mr. Hickey cautiously. "Is—er—Mrs. Brewster's friend, Miss Tripp, still with you?"

"No, George; she isn't," Sam told him, enjoying the look of uncontrolled dismay which instantly overspread Mr. Hickey's countenance. "She's gone next door to stay," he added.

"Next door—to—er stay?"

"At the Stanfords' you know. Miss Tripp is keeping house and looking after the young Stanfords while their exhausted parents are endeavouring to recuperate their energies in the far west."

"Hum—ah," quoth Mr. Hickey thoughtfully, his mind reverting casually to the cerise plumes.

"She's doing wonders with those kids, my wife tells me," pursued Sam Brewster artfully. "Miss Tripp's a fine girl and no mistake; it'll be a lucky man who can secure her services for life."

Mr. Hickey offered no comment on this statement, and his friend waved his hand in token of farewell.

"Come around and see us, George, when you haven't anything better to do," he said, as he stepped out to the street.

"Oh—er—I say, Brewster; would it be the proper thing for me to call on Miss Tripp? I—I have a little explanation to make, and——"

"Miss Tripp's mother is chaperoning her," said Sam, with unsmiling gravity. "It would be, I should say, quite the proper thing for you to call upon her."

"Well; then I think I'd better take those——. Er—Brewster, I wonder if you could enlighten me?—You see it's this way, a—friend of mine called at my office the other day to consult me about a little matter. He said he'd been unfortunate enough to injure a lady's hat—feathers, you know—and he wanted to know what I'd do under like circumstances. 'Well, my dear fellow,' I told him, 'I don't know much about women's head-gear and that sort of thing; but,' I said, 'I should think the square thing to do would be to buy some handsome plumes and send them to the lady—something good and—er—expensive; say forty or fifty dollars.'"

Sam whistled. "Pretty tough advice, unless the fellow happened to have plenty of cash," he hazarded, with a quizzical look at the now flushed and agitated Mr. Hickey.

"Wouldn't they be good enough at that price?" inquired the engineer excitedly. "Ought I—ought my friend to have paid more?"

"I should say that was a fair price," said Sam mildly. "I don't believe my wife has any feathers of that description on her hats."

Mr. Hickey looked troubled. "Do you think I—er—told my friend the correct thing to do?" he inquired humbly. "Of course I don't know much about—feathers, or anything about women, for that matter."

"That's where you're making a big mistake, Hickey, if you'll allow me to say as much. You ought to marry some nice girl, man, and make her happy. You'd find yourself happier than you have any idea of in the process."

Mr. Hickey shook his head dubiously. "That may be so," he admitted. "I don't doubt it, to tell you the truth; but I——. The fact is, Brewster, I'm too far along in life to think of changing my way of living. I—I'd be afraid to try it, for fear——"

"Oh, nonsense, man! you're just in your prime. Be sure you get the right woman, though; a real home-maker, Hickey; the kind who'll meet you at night with a smile, and have a first-class dinner ready for you three hundred and sixty-five days in the year."

Mr. Hickey stared inscrutably at a passing truck. "Hum—ah!" he ejaculated. "I—er—dare say you are right, Brewster. Quite so, in fact. I—I'll think it over and let you know—that is, I——"

Sam Brewster turned aside to conceal a passing smile. "The more you think it over the better," he said convincingly; "only don't take so much time for thinking that the other man'll cut you out."

"Then there is another man!" exclaimed Mr. Hickey, with some agitation. "I knew it; I felt sure of it. But how could it be otherwise?"

Sam Brewster stared in amazement at the effect produced by his careless speech. "There's always another man, George," he said seriously—though he felt morally certain there wasn't, if Hickey was referring to Miss Tripp. "But you want to get busy, and not waste time philandering."

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