makes eventual separation the harder. I know that you care nothing for me," she goes on, her cheeks flushed crimson. "Don't interrupt me," as Van Zandt seeks to interpose a protest. "I know that you care nothing for me, not in the way I would have you feel. I have your friendship, yes, beyond that I am nothing to you. And I—I love you, Phillip—love you as I never expected to love a man. I make the avowal without shame, for I know there is no possibility of a change in your sentiments toward me. And I am going away—to-morrow," half sobs the woman, as she covers her face with her hands.
Van Zandt lays his hand upon Isabel's head and smooths the dark tresses sympathetically. She pushes the hand away.
"Courage! Tears ill become a diplomat," declares Van Zandt. "This is a dreary world. We seldom attain our heart's desire, even though the object we seek be a lowly one. Will you have some wine?" Isabel shakes her head. She has dried her eyes and has relapsed into an apathetic melancholy.
Van Zandt signals to a waiter. "A little wine will help lighten our hearts," he tells Mrs. Harding; "for believe me, mine is not less heavy than yours. Cheer up and we will drink a toast to all unrequited love."
Isabel gives him a swift look of surprise. "You heard?" she demands.
"I heard nothing," he replies, smilingly. "What has given rise to your question?"
"'Tis less than an hour since I offered that very toast. I have had a proposal to-night."
"Indeed? And you rejected it?"
"Can you ask such a question. The world is full of Don Manadas, but there is only one"
"So? The swarthy gentleman, with the curious white mustachios?" interrupts Van Zandt. "I noticed you talking with him."
"I had rejected him twice before, but his persistence is worthy of a better cause. To-night I promised to ac-
