er and kissed
her--a loud filial smack.

She quickly and instinctively put one hand up to her hair, for the
strange young man had been a trifle effusive. But before she could
transform her surprise into vocal sounds the stranger spoke, in a voice
ringing with affectionate sincerity not too playful, you understand, but
convincing, nevertheless:

"She inherits her good looks, her disposition, and her taste in dress
from you. I saw it the first time I met you. Don't you remember? And I
warn you now that if I can't marry Grace I'll kill that husband of yours
and marry _you_!"

To prove it, he kissed her again, twice.

"How dare--" shouted Mr. Goodchild.

"I am not sure," said H. R. to Mrs. Goodchild, "that I want Grace now.
Between thirty-two and forty a woman is at her best."

He patted her shoulder, as we paternally do with the young ones, and
went back to Grace. It all had happened so quickly that only H. R. was
calm.

"My dear!" said Mrs. Goodchild, looking helplessly at Grace.

"What is it, mother?" said H. R., appropriating the affectionate words.
And as she did not answer he asked, generally. "What do you say to the
eighth?"

"An eighth?" echoed Mr. Goodchild, almost amiably, thinking, of
one-eighth of one per cent.

"Of June!" said H. R. "That gives you ample time for everything, Grace.
And, remember, give the reporters the detailed list of the trousseau."

"There isn't going to be any marriage. And there isn't going to be any
nauseating newspaper articles with pictures of intimate lingerie enough
to make a decent man blush."

"A really decent man always blushes with shame when he does not give
_carte blanche_ to his only daughter," said H. R. with great dignity.

"Mr.--er--Rogers," said Mrs. Goodchild.

"Rutgers," corrected her prospective son-in-law. "The 'g' is hard. It's
Dutch, like Roosevelt, Van Rensselaer, and Cruger."

"But we don't know anything about your family," she said, very
seriously.

"Do you know," asked H. R., pleasantly, "the Wittelbachs?"

"It's beer, isn't it?" she said. It might be the best brewing blood in
Christendom, but still it wasn't Wall Street or real estate.

"Good shot!" exclaimed H. R., admiringly. "It is the patronymic of the
reigning house of Bavaria. You know, Munich, where beer is the thing.
And do you know the Bernadottes?"

"I've heard of them," replied Mrs. Goodchild, made wary by her
non-recognition of a sovereign house.

"It is not French delicates