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"Bruce says we're going to a French restaurant," she announced proudly. "I hope I can remember enough French to talk politely. Mademoiselle makes us say so many fine sentences when we have our 'calling days' in the French class that I get awfully twisted and never know whether I'm masculine or feminine." "Dearest, you must not be afraid," said he, glancing down anxiously at her face. "You must throw off the terror you have of this woman. If the law--" "Molly dear," she said with her words literally falling over themselves, "Tom says you would give us some of your dinner left-overs to take for lunch in the car, for we are going to take a run down to Hedgeland to see some awfully fine cattle he has heard will be in the market there. I don't want to ask mother, in case she won't let me go; and his mother, if he asked her, will begin to talk about us. Tom said I was to come to you, and you would understand and arrange it all quickly. He sent his love and all sorts of other messages. Isn't he fond of a joke?" And we kissed and laughed and packed a basket, and kissed and laughed again for good-bye. I felt amused and happy for a few minutes—and also deserted. It's a very good thing for a woman's conceit to find out how many of her lovers are just make-believes. I may have needed Tom's deflection..

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