, "you would be lovely
to marry because I would never have to see you again!"

Michael Arranstoun put his head back and laughed; she was perfectly
delicious--he began to dislike Mr. Greenbank.

His tea was quite forgotten.

"Er--of course not," he agreed. "Well, I could get a special license,
if you could tell me exactly how you stand, and your whole name and your
parents' names, and everything, and we could get their consent--but I
conclude your father, at least, is no longer alive."

Miss Delburg had a very grown-up air now.

"No, my parents are both dead," she told him. "Papa three years ago, and
Mamma for ages, and I never saw them much anyhow. They were always
travelling about, and Mamma was a Frenchwoman and a Catholic. Her family
did not speak to her because she married a Protestant and an American.
And the worry it was for me being brought up in a convent! because Papa
would have me a Protestant, so I do believe I have got a little religion
of my own that is not like either!"

"Yes?"

She continued her narrative in the intervals of the joy of munching
another cake.

"Papa was very rich, and it's all mine--Only it appears he did not
approve of the freedom of American women--and so tied it up so that I
can't get it until I am an old maid of twenty-one--or get married. Is it
not disgusting?"

Michael's thoughts were now concentrating upon the vital points.

"But have you not got a guardian or something?"

"Not exactly. Only an old lawyer person who is now in London. I have
seen Papa's will, and I know I can marry when and whom I like if I get
his consent--and he would give it in a minute, he is sick of me!"

"How fortunate!" Then restlessness seized him again, and he got up,
gulped down his tea, and began his pacing.

"I do think it would be a good plan, and we must do it if we can get
this person's leave--Yes, and do it quickly before we change our minds,
or something interferes. Everyone would think we were perfectly mad, but
as it suits us both, that is no one's business--Only--you are rather
young--and er--I don't know Greenbank. You are sure he is horrid?"

The girl clasped her hands together with force.

"Sure! I should think so--He wears glasses, and has nasty, scrabbly bits
of fur on his face, which he thinks is a beard, and he is pompous and he
talks like this," and she imitated a precise Boston voice. "'My dear
Sabine--have you considered,' and he is lanky--and Oh! I detest him, and
I c