Flo had made her do the balcony scene from "Romeo and Juliet,"
and since then all had been different.

Captain Phipps had not only monopolized her at the dances--he had also
found time from his not over-arduous military duties to drop in on her
frequently in the afternoons. For hours at a time they had sat in the
long, dim Bartlett parlor, with only the ghostly bust of old Madam
Bartlett for a chaperon, ostensibly absorbed in the study of modern
drama, but finding ample time to dwell at length upon Eleanor's
qualifications for the stage and the Captain's budding genius as a
playwright. And just when Ibsen and Pinero were giving place to
Sudermann, and vague personal ambitions were crystallizing into definite
plans, the family interfered.

The causes of their condemnation were as varied as they were numerous. He
was ten years older than Eleanor; he was too sophisticated a companion
for a young girl; he had taken her to a public dance-hall on New Year's
eve, where she had been seen dancing with an unknown private; he had been
quite insolent to Madam when she had taken him to task for it; and, most
heinous of all, he was encouraging her in her ambition to go on the
stage. And beneath it all, Eleanor knew quite well, was the nervous
flutter of apprehension that seized the entire family whenever a
threatening masculine presence loomed on the horizon.

She stole a glance at her handsome companion, and, seeing that he was
observing her, quickly lowered her eyes. The Captain had a flattering way
of studying her poses, remarking on the lines of her gowns and her hats.
He was constantly discovering interesting things about her that she had
not known before. But sometimes, as now, she was restive under his too
close scrutiny.

"So you are actually going to leave me next week?" he asked, with a note
of personal aggrievement.

"To leave you? I like that! If it weren't for you I shouldn't be going."

"Are they really sending you away on my account?"

"Indeed they are. Grandmother says you are encouraging me about the
stage, and that poor Papa Claude is demoralizing us both."

"Isn't that absurd?" said the Captain. "Dear old C. M. is about as
innocuous as a peacock. Madam Bartlett should have been born in the
seventeenth century. What will she say when she sees your name blazing
over a Broadway theater?"

"In one of your plays! Oh, Captain, wouldn't that be glorious?"

"Haven't I asked you to drop the 'Captain'? My name is