liness. "White
honeysuckle," he called her, and the names of all the beautiful white
flowers he knew. And then one night, to the rattle of poker chips from
the remote dining room, he jerked her to him without preamble, kissing
her mouth down tightly against her teeth.

"My sweetheart! My little white carnation sweetheart! I won't be held
off any longer. I'm going to carry you away for my little moonflower
wife."

She sprang back prettier than he had ever seen her in the dishevelment
from where his embrace had dragged at her hair.

"You mustn't," she cried, but there was enough of the conquering male in
him to read easily into this a mere plating over her desire.

"You can't hold me at arm's length any longer. You've maddened me for
months. I love you. You love me. You do. You do," and crushed her to
him, but this time his pain and his surprise genuine as she sprang back,
quivering.

"No, I tell you. No! No! No!" and sat down trembling.

"Why, Alma!" And he sat down, too, rather palely, at the remote end of
the divan.

"You--I--mustn't!" she said, frantic to keep her lips from twisting, her
little lacy fribble of a handkerchief a mere string from winding.

"Mustn't what?"

"Mustn't," was all she could repeat and not weep her words.

"Won't--I--do?"

"It's--mamma."

"What?"

"Her."

"Her what, my little white buttonhole carnation?"

"You see--I--She's all alone."

"You adorable, she's got a brand-new husky husband."

"No--you don't--understand."

Then, on a thunderclap of inspiration, hitting his knee:

"I have it. Mamma-baby! That's it. My girlie is a cry-baby, mamma-baby!"
And made to slide along the divan toward her, but up flew her two small
hands, like fans.

"No," she said, with the little bang back in her voice which steadied
him again. "I mustn't! You see, we're so close. Sometimes it's more as
if I were the mother and she my little girl."

"Alma, that's beautiful, but it's silly, too. But tell me first of all,
mamma-baby, that you do care. Tell me that first, dearest, and then we
can talk."

The kerchief was all screwed up now, so tightly that it could stiffly
unwind of itself.

"She's not well, Leo. That terrible neuralgia--that's why she needs me
so."

"Nonsense! She hasn't had a spell for weeks. That's Louis' great brag,
that he's curing her. Oh, Alma, Alma, that's not a reason; that's an
excuse!"

"Leo--you don't understand."

"I'm afraid I--don't," he said, looking at he