subconsciously he knew that all the time he was creating her there had
been before him a vision of Jane. Not a very distinct vision, to be
sure. It had been some years since he had seen her. But that bit about
the sober gray eyes and the piquant chin Jane was responsible for. He
could never forget those eyes of Jane's. He was not so certain about the
chin. It might have been piquant; and then again, it might not. At any
rate, it had been adorable, for it was Jane's.

So, while some of his enthusiasm in the defence of Sunday Weeks was due
to artistic fervor, more of it was prompted by thoughts of Jane Temple.
He did not pretend, he declared, to speak for other men; but as for
himself, he liked Sunday--he liked her very much.

The shrewd eyes of the "lady journalist" glistened. She knew her cue
when she heard it. Throwing her first theory to the four winds, she
eagerly gripped this new and tangible fact.

"Then she really is your ideal?"

He had not thought much about it, but he presumed that in a sense she
was.

"But suppose now, Mr. Brown, just suppose you should some day run across
a young woman exactly like the Sunday Weeks you have described: would
you marry her?"

Decatur Brown laughed--a light, irresponsible, bachelor laugh. "I should
probably ask her if I might first."

"But you _would_ ask her?"