I had just left the office when I ran into Pembroke, who was in the act
of mounting the stairs. It was Saturday morning. Phyllis had left
town.

"Hello!" he cried. "A moment more, and I should have missed you, and
then you would not have learned a piece of news."

"News?"

"Yes. I have made up my mind not to go home till February."

"What changed your plans so suddenly?" I asked.

"My conscience."

"In heaven's name, what has your conscience to do with your plans?"

"Well, you see, my conscience would not permit me to meet such a
remarkable woman as Miss Landors without becoming better acquainted
with her." He swung his cane back and forth.

"This is very sudden," said I, lighting a cigar. "When did it happen?"

"What time did she come into your office the other day?"

"It must have been after eleven."

"Then it happened about eleven-fifteen." Pembroke's eyes were dancing.
"Do you--er--think there are any others?"

"Thousands," said I, "only--" I turned the end of my cigar around to
see if the light had proved effective.

"Only what?"

"Only she won't have them."

"Then there is really a chance?"

"When a woman is not married there is always a chance," said I, wisely.
"But let me tell you, cousin mine, she has a very high ideal. The man
who wins her must be little less than a demigod and a little more than
a man. Indeed, her ideal is so high that I did not reach it by a good
foot."