dropping locust blossoms infolding them, and in
their ears the endless murmur of the river. Then Eleanor said, suddenly:
"Maurice!--Mr. Houghton? What will _he_ do when he hears? He'll think an
'elopement' is dreadful."

He chuckled. "Uncle Henry?--He isn't really my uncle, but I call him
that;--he won't rage. He'll just whistle. People of his age have to
whistle, to show they're alive. I have reason to believe," the cub said,
"that he 'whistled' when I flunked in my mid-years. Well, I felt sorry,
myself--on his account," Maurice said, with the serious and amiable
condescension of youth. "I hated to jar him. But--gosh! I'd have flunked
A B C's, for _this_. Nelly, I tell you heaven hasn't got anything on
this! As for Uncle Henry, I'll write him to-morrow that I had to get
married sort of in a hurry, because Mrs. Newbolt wanted to haul you off
to Europe. He'll understand. He's white. And he won't really mind--after
the first biff;--that will take him below the belt, I suppose, poor old
Uncle Henry! But after that, he'll adore you. He adores beauty."

Her delight in his praise made her almost beautiful; but she protested
that he was a goose. Then she took the little grass ring from her finger
and slipped it into her pocketbook. "I'm going to keep it always," she
said. "How about Mrs. Houghton?"

"She'll love you! She's a peach. And little Skeezics--"

"Who is Skeezics?"

"Edith. Their kid. Eleven years old. She paid me the compliment of
announcing, when she was seven, that she was going to marry me when she
grew up! But I believe, now, she has a crush on Sir Walter Raleigh.
She'll adore you, too."

"I'm afraid of them all," she confessed; "they won't like--an
elopement."

"They'll fall over themselves with joy to think I'm settled for life!
I'm afraid I've been a cussed nuisance to Uncle Henry," he said,
ruefully; "always doing fool things, you know,--I mean when I was a boy.
And he's been great, always. But I know he's been afraid I'd take a wild
flight in actresses."

"'_Wild_' flight? What will he call--" She caught her breath.

"He'll call it a 'wild flight in angels'!" he said.

The word made her put a laughing and protesting hand (which he kissed)
over his lips. Then she said that she remembered Mr. Houghton: "I met
him a long time ago; when--when you were a little boy."

"And yet here you are, 'Mrs. Maurice Curtis!' Isn't it supreme?"
he demanded. The moment was so beyond words that it made him
sophom