y amusing."

"It would be all right for us, of course," said Pete, "but it would be
rather hard on Mathilde."

"Mathilde is a better fighter than either of you," put in Vincent.
"Adelaide has no continuity of purpose, and you, Pete, are wretchedly
kind-hearted; but Mathilde would go into it to the death."

"Oh, I don't know what you mean, Mr. Farron," exclaimed Mathilde,
tremendously flattered, and hoping he would go on. "I don't like
to fight."

"Neither did Stonewall Jackson, I believe, until they fixed bayonets."

Mathilde, dropping her eyes, saw Pete's hand lying on the table. It was
stubby, and she loved it the better for being so; it was firm and boyish
and exactly like Pete. Looking up, she caught her mother's eye, and they
both remembered. For an instant indecision flickered in Adelaide's look,
but she lacked the complete courage to add that to the list--to tell any
human being that she had said his hands were stubby; and so her eyes fell
before her daughter's.

As dinner went on the adjustment between the four became more nearly
perfect; the gaiety, directed by Adelaide, lost all sting. But even as
she talked to Pete she was only dimly aware of his existence. Her
audience was her husband. She was playing for his praise and admiration,
and before soup was over she knew she had it; she knew better than words
could tell her that he thought her the most desirable woman in the world.
Fortified by that knowledge, the pacification of a cross boy seemed to
Adelaide an inconsiderable task.

By the time they rose from table it was accomplished. As they went into
the drawing-room Adelaide was thinking that young men were really rather
geese, but, then, one wouldn't have them different if one could.

Vincent was thinking how completely attaching a nature like hers would
always be to him, since when she yielded her will to his she did it with
such complete generosity.

Mathilde was saying to herself:

"Of course I knew Pete's charm would win Mama at last, but even I did not
suppose he could do it the very first evening."

And Pete was thinking:

"A former beauty thinks she can put anything over, and in a way she can.
I feel rather friendly toward her."

The Farrons had decided while they were dressing that after dinner they
would retire to Vincent's study and give the lovers a few minutes to
themselves.

Left alone, Pete and Mathilde stood looking seriously at each other, and
then at the room which only a