of them. And then came the day when Arthur called up to say that things were going so well with the Telephone lady that he wanted Cynthia to meet her; and would she join them in St. Paul's Churchyard at half-past twelve? Ann, with just a curious little unanalyzed twinge in her heart, agreed to do so.
But when she reached the bench in the graveyard, where a bright autumn sunshine filled the clearing among those tremendous buildings, Arthur was there alone.
"Where's Alice?" said Ann, innocently—for such was the name Arthur had always given the lady of the Telephone Company.
"She couldn't come," he said. "But I want to show you her picture."
They sat down on the bench, and he took out of his pocket a copy of the noon edition of the Planet. He turned to the feature page, and displayed the little cut of Cynthia at the head of the Lovelorn column.
"There," he said, stoutly (though his heart was tremulous within him), "there, you adorable little thing, there she is."
It would be pleasant to linger over this scene, but, as I have just said, this is not our dénouement, but only an incident. Ann, shot through with
