lattice is thrown wide, a fair hand beckons. I dash within."
"Thanks for dashing," Miss Meyrick greeted him, on the balcony. "I was finding it dreadfully dull. But I'm afraid the Spanish romance is a little lacking. There is no moonlight, no lattice, no mantilla, no Spanish beauty."
"No matter," Minot answered. "I never did care for Spanish types. They flash like a sky-rocket—then tumble in the dark. Now, the home-grown girls—"
"And nothing but tea," she interrupted. "Will you have a cup?"
"Thanks. Was it really very dull?"
"Yes. This book was to blame." She held up a novel.
"What's the matter with it?"
"Oh—it's one of those books in which the hero and heroine are forever 'gazing into each other's eyes.' And they understand perfectly. But the reader doesn't. I've reached one of those gazing matches now."
"But isn't it so in real life—when people gaze
