egular mush slush. It's the kind of courting a man who isn't
much does--that is, I guess it's the kind, but the Princess
understands. She's been fooled once. Tell me"--Carmencita leaned
forward and, arms again crossed on Van Landing's knees, looked
anxiously in his face--"what does a man say when he's really and truly
courting? I mean a nice man. When the Real one comes, the Right
one--what will he say? I'm just about there, and I don't know how to
go on."

"I wish I could tell you." Van Landing leaned back in his chair and,
taking out his watch again, looked at it. "I shouldn't dare to try to
write a novel, consequently--"

"I'll try anything while I'm waiting to go to work." Carmencita sat
back dejectedly. "Is a book a novel because it has love in it?"

"It is generally supposed to be. When you are older you may write
your love scenes with greater knowledge and--"

"No, I won't. I don't expect to have any love scenes when I get
married. I've read a lot of that, and it don't last. All I want my
husband to say is, 'Will you marry me, Carmencita?' and I will say,
'Yes,' and I hope we'll keep on liking each other. Some don't." Her
face changed, and she sat upright, her hands pressed to her breast.
"_This_ is a novel--to--night is! We're living one, and you're the
Prince and Miss Frances is the Princess, and I found you! Oh, my
goodness! what is that?"

With a swift movement she was on her feet and at the door. Van
Landing, too, rose quickly. Below could be heard loud voices, the
moving of furniture, and the cries of frightened children, and
cautiously Carmencita turned the knob and went into the hall.

"Old Beer-Barrel is drunk again." Tiptoeing to the banister, she
leaned over it. "When he gets like this he's crazy as a loon, and some
day he'll kill somebody. Goodness gracious! he's coming up here!"

Before Van Landing could reach her she was inside and at the
wash-stand. Taking up the pitcher filled with water, she again ran
into the hall, and as the cursing, stumbling man began to mount the
stairs she leaned over the banister and poured the contents of the
pitcher on his head. As if shot, the man stood still, face upturned,
hair drenched, hands trembling, then he sat down on the steps.

Giving the pitcher to Van Landing, she told him to fill it and pointed
to a faucet in the hall. "I don't think he'll need another; one is
generally enough. I've seen him like this before. His wife won't throw
water in his face