“No,” said Carleton, with sarcastic intonation. “I said good night to Miss Burt about three-quarters of an hour before I started to go over to Miss Van Norman’s. Do you want to know what I did during that interval?”

“Yes.”

“I was in my own room⁠—my den. I did what many a man does on the eve of his wedding. I burned up a few notes⁠—perhaps a photograph or two⁠—and one withered rosebud⁠—a ‘keepsake.’ Does this interest you?”

“Not especially, but, Schuyler, do drop that resentful air. I’m not quizzing you, and if you don’t want to talk about the subject at all, we won’t.”

“Very well⁠—I don’t.”

“Very well, then.”