The sun was already beginning to slant a dusty beam across his desk; Jack's whistling had long since ceased.

Presently, with an exclamation of relief, the editor laid aside the last proof-sheet and looked up.
Jack Hamlin had closed the magazine, but with one hand thrown over the back of the sofa he was still holding it, his slim forefinger between its leaves to keep the place, and his handsome profile and dark lashes lifted towards the window.

The editor, smiling at this unwonted abstraction, said quietly,-- "Well, what do you think of them ?" Jack rose, laid the magazine down, settled his white waistcoat with both hands, and lounged towards his friend with audacious but slightly veiled and shining eyes.

"They sort of sing themselves to you," he said, quietly, leaning beside the editor's desk, and looking down upon him.
After a pause he said, "Then you don't know what she's like ?" "That's what Mr.Bowers asked me," remarked the editor.
"D--n Bowers!" "I suppose you also wish me to write and ask for permission to give you her address ?" said the editor, with great gravity.
"No," said Jack, coolly.

"I propose to give it to YOU within a week, and you will pay me with a breakfast.