-ordered households." Certainly not.
It isn't a matter of the orders, but of the soul-excision.

Grace Goodchild walked in--behind her mother. The footman stood by the
door, evidently by request.

Everything in civilized communities is by request.

"How do you do?" said H. R., pleasantly. "Is this mother?" He bowed to
Mrs. Goodchild--the bow of a social equal--his eyes full of a highly
intelligent appreciation of physical charm. Then he asked Grace, "Did
you read them?"

Mrs. Goodchild had intended to be stern, but the young man's undisguised
admiration softened her wrath to pleasant sarcasm.

"I wished to see for myself," she said, not very hostilely, "if you were
insane. I see you are--"

"I am," agreed H. R., amicably, "and have been since I saw her. And the
worst of it is, I am very proud of it."

"Will you oblige me by leaving this house quietly?"

"Certainly," H. R. assured her. "I didn't come to stay--this time. I'm
glad to have seen you. Has Grace told you I'm to be your son-in-law?"

He looked at her proudly, yet meekly. It was wonderful how well he
managed to express the conflict. Then he apologized contritely. "I was
too busy to call before. My grandmother has never met you, has she?" He
looked at her anxiously, eager to clear Mrs. Goodchild's name before the
court of his family.

At one fell swoop H. R. had deleted the name of Goodchild from the
society columns.

Mrs. Goodchild said, huskily, "Frederick, ring for a policeman."

"I'll break his damned neck if he does," said H. R., with patrician
calmness. "Don't you ever again dare to listen while I am here,
Frederick. You may go."

H. R. looked so much as if he meant what he said that Grace was
pleasantly thrilled by his masterfulness. But not for worlds would she
show it facially. When a woman can't lie to the man who loves her she
lies to herself by looking as she does not feel.

"Do you wish me to go? For the sake of peace?" he asked Grace,
anxiously.

There was nothing he would not do, no torture too great to endure, for
her sake--not even the exquisite agony of absence. That there might be
no misunderstanding, he added, softly, "Do you?"

"Don't you talk to my daughter!" said Mrs. Goodchild, furious at being
excluded from the supreme command. Hearing no assent, she was compelled
by the law of nature to repeat herself: "Don't you talk to my daughter!"

H. R. looked at her in grieved perplexity. "Do you mean that you are
deliberately