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American Sunday Monthly Magazine Section IN leaving the hotel porch after nightfall they had broken the oldest and most sacred tradition of the Lees- burg Springs. The lit suggestion had come from Amy Burden as she sat with her fiance in the blackest corner of the hotel piazza, and this piazza was noted throughout the South for its partic ularly black corners. The idea was conceived in a cer tain distrust of her lover’s sporting blood, but it must be said, to the young man’s credit, that if he winced at the proposition his chagrin was not apparen; through the general blackness. Their escape had apparently been carried out most successfully and they were now seated side by side on the horse-block in the Baptist churchyard. The night was warm and cloudless and a little silver crescent of a moon hung just over the high chimney of the old brick church. In the distance, through the spreading branches of a sycamore grove, shone the dim rows of iights of the hotel, and from time to time there reached across the lawn to the young lovers the echo of a waltz from the ballroom, or a low-pitched melody from the negroes at the servants’ quarters. For some moments there had been silence between them. The young man held one of the girl’s hands in both of his and and at intervals gently pressed the long delicate fingers. “I hope,” said the girl, “that we will always be known as ‘The Bopps.’” “It would be pleasant,” the .lover replied, “but you know there are a whole lot of Bopps, and beyond the fact that I am engaged to you, I don’t think that I have ever done anything to deserve the title of ‘The Bopp.’” “I didn’t say anything about ‘The Bopp’ or ‘The Bopps,’” the girl replied. “What I said was ‘The Bopps.’” Bopps nodded his head and said, “Oh!” It was a very weak imitation of a man who understands the meaning of what is being said. Miss Lenore Craig—or, as she was known to her intimates and through the columns of the society journals, “Patsey” Craig—was a young woman of considerable beauty, splendid physical condition, and a wholesome love for games in the open rather than those played in the dark corners of hotel pi azzas. She had long been a friend of Amy Burden’s and was now her guest at the Leesburg Springs. The young women occupied adjoining rooms, and when Miss Burden stealthily opened her door on this particular night, she found the narrow bed occupied by her friend. Miss Craig had apparently inter rupted her own preparations for the night by lying down on the bed and staring, wide-eyed, at the cracked whitewashed ceiling overhead. “Well?” she asked, still staring at the ceiling. Miss Burden walked over to the bureau mirror, and, holding up a candle, took a long deliberate look at herself in the glass. Then she put down the candle and tried to undo a brooch at the back of the lace collar on her shirt-waist. “Well,” she said, “I have had him out in the Baptist churchyard.” “ I hope you broke it off? ” “Do girls usually take men to churchyards on moonlight nights to break off engagements? I don’t. Patsey, dear, will you never get used to the idea of my marrying Ned?” “I will,” said Miss Craig, “when I see the clergy man shake hands with you after the ceremony. I am not looking to you to marry into the nobility— even the American variety; but you are pretty, your position is fairly secure—that is, on the West side— and you have some money. As long as your en gagement is not announced, I shall certainly not give up hope. I am your friend.” Miss Burden took off one of her patent-leather slip pers and threw it with considerable force into a neat row of carefully treed shoes at the end of the little room. “ If you were really a friend, you would, instead of finding fault, spend your time trying to get used to him.” “ I’ll leave that to you after your marriage,” snapped Miss Craig. “In the meantime, I am against Bopps, strong.” “Why?” “ Why?—for twenty reasons. Principally, he is Fir? 2-L T7 i\. wholly lacking in a sense of humor, and that, I claim in the case of hus bands, is the es sential sense.” “I can cure that,” suggested MissBurden some what peevishly. “No, you can’t. Two tears forced them selves into the girl’s eyes; the situation had far exceeded her sense of humor You can cure a man of drink, perhaps, or the opium habit, or undisguised admiration for other women, but you can’t cure him of a lack of humor.”* “Perhaps I have enough for both?” There was a touch of irony in Miss Burden’s voice. Miss Craig, still lying on the bed, with her fingers interlaced under her head, smiled broadly. “Any girl who marries a man named Bopps has no humor to throw about foolishly.” The speaker suddenly shifted her position, so that she could look directly at her friend. “Who is the man, anyhow? As a matter of fact, he is the only man at the Springs. I admit, it is something to carry off the one beau here, but for Fleaven’s sake, don’t tote him any farther than the other girls can see you. He may be the only male at Leesburg Springs, but he’s not the only man who lives in New York—at least he wasn’t when I left it.” Miss Burden further disturbed the long row of shoes by bombarding it with her second slipper. Then, ironically: “Suppose—I say, suppose I am in love with the man?” Miss Craig smiled cheerfully. “You don’t love Bopps,” she said, “you pity him. It may be un conscious on your part, but that’s what it is—pity. You are just as sorry for a man with a name like Bopps as you would be if he had been born without legs or had a fearful past and had asked you to reform him. You’re sorry, but you’re not in love. There always was a bit of the martyr about you. Do you remember the time you took up settlement work and the week you spent at the hospital? I only hope this affair will turn out as half-baked as your other charities have. You can resign from sanitary lodging-house boards and hospital visiting commit tees, but you can’t resign from Bopps—not when you are Mrs. Bopps.” “Patsey,” said Miss Burden, “you know perfectly well why I gave up those charities. The doctor said—” “I certainly do know why you gave up those charities,” interrupted Miss Craig, “and the doctor had nothing to do with it.” The argument promised to be long. Miss Burden sat down and tilted her chair against the waff at a dangerous angle. Miss Craig sat on the edge of the bed. “ You quit the hospital because Archie Brewster was in some crazy business with queer hours so that he could only call on you in the morning, and that was when you ought to have been at the hospital. The reason you dropped the settlement game was because your committee was called for the first time the day May Wilson was married to Joe Corcoran, and you said that considering the way you and Joe had played around together at Jamestown, it wouldn’t do for you not to be at the wedding— committee or no committee. That’s really the cause of all your trouble. You try to make yourself believe that you are naturally serious and a born settlement worker, while, as a matter of fact, you are as full of romance as an Adirondack canoe. If you must marry some one, do wait until you get back to town. Bopps is a case of propinquity.” “He lives in New York,” suggested Miss Burden. “In a way he does,” corrected Patsey. “He lives in a boarding-house and he works in Paterson. I know all about him; he’s an iron peddler.” “A what? You probably mean puddler, and he’s not that. He has a very responsible position in an important foundry.” “I’ve no doubt it’s very responsible,” snapped Miss Craig—“buf I understand it’s not sufficiently responsible to trust him with a very large sum of money to take home on pay-days.” “We’ll have quite enough,” replied Miss Burden. “ We have discussed it at length.” “Disgusting,” said Miss Craig, rising from the bed. “What’s the matter with Sam Ogden? Have you forgotten him entirely? I don’t believe you and Sam have been separated forty-eight hours for the last two years. Has he no rights? ” “Well, if he has, it’s all he has got and it’s all he ever will have. I’m very fond of Sam, but he’s just an idler.” “He’s a very charming idler,” said Miss Craig, “ and he is very much in love with you.” She crossed the room and opened the door into her own room. Then she turned to Miss Burden, who was non chalantly swinging her stockinged feet. “Amy, will you make me one promise?” Miss Burden shook her yellow hair. “Perhaps,” she mumbled. “Don’t announce your engagement until you get back to New York. The night you arrive I will have a dinner for you and Bopps and Sam. Please give Sam that chance.” “Sam Ogden,” said Miss Burden doggedly, and looking directly into the empty space before her, “is just like all the other young men who play at making a living on Wall street.” “There is just one difference between Sam and the other young men you speak of,” said Miss Craig. “Sam is in love with you and the others are not. Sam is sympathetic and amusing and has a sense of humor, and a cheap spirit of romance, which is just what you crave, although you will not admit it. Bopps has all the instincts of a Paterson commuter. He is sympathetic to you just now, because he loves you, but he has no sense of humor. If you marry him, you will regret it within three months, and in six months you will be in love with Sam Ogden. I know you for what you are.” “Notwithstanding which fact,” answered Miss Burden tartly, “I am going to marry Ned Bopps.” The answer was an explosive bang caused by the slamming of a door. II Like all newly wed couples who live in New \T>rk and are not blessed with unlimited means, the Bopps had been confronted with the eternal question —the choice between a high-ceiling, derelict apart ment on Washington Square and a kitchenette flat in Harlem. They compromised on an apartment on a crosstown street, not far from Riverside Drive, with a restaurant on the ground floor. It was the original understanding that this arrangement was