Regardless of all excitement of the day before, and of the change that had come into my life, I slept late Sunday morning. The reason was that, because of night duty at the factory, it was the first sleep for twenty-four hours. All the thinking and plans I had intended to do and make while in bed faded into a dreamless unconsciousness. I awoke without having decided on the best approach to Helen's family. Business was not yet in such shape that I could offer a strong financial argument to so keen a business man as Mr. Claybourne, nor had I any idea what my own family would think of me. Letters were not an ideal means of communication. Could I express in black and white how adorable Helen was—she who was all intangible charm and delight? These and many other disturbing thoughts came to me as I shaved. It was curious that every fresh step in life opened up such vistas of unforeseen problems! Nothing was as one had imagined it would be.

On my way out Myrtle Boulevard I passed a florist's—the florist shops kept open until church time in Deep Harbor—and bought Helen a bunch of Parma violets; they were her favourites, and to me violets symbolized her. She was sitting up, her foot on a rest and "Mother" hovering about, when I arrived. Helen reported the doctor's opinion as favourable—a bad wrench, but requiring merely rest and quiet. "Mother" was more pessimistic; with a knee one never knew what would happen; a friend of hers had a daughter no older than Helen who had been made lame for life by less; still, it was what she had always expected, only no one ever listened to her advice, least of all Helen; had she not warned her again and again that horseback riding at all hours of the day and night was dangerous, to say nothing of being highly improper? Helen buried her nose in the violets and said nothing; I, too, had learned a measure of discretion where "mother" was concerned, and sat on the edge of my chair throughout the tirade. Mr. Claybourne rescued us.

"Now, mother," he said in his brisk way, "these kids want to talk it all over by themselves. You come into the library with me and read the scandal in the Sunday supplement. The best regulated horses will fall down sometimes; thank Heaven your daughter didn't break any bones, and be happy." He dragged her protesting away. Helen and I looked at one another, uncertain where to begin.

"It was like you, Ted, to bring me the violets, but you mustn't waste money on me any more. We'll need it all," she smiled—womanlike, recovering first. "Have we any money, Ted?"

I was hardly prepared for so direct a poser; yet even Arthur's knights sometimes had difficulties financing their quests. It was distinctly her right to know the truth.

"My present salary isn't enough," I admitted, "but by next summer, if the business is well on its feet, we can go to England. I have an interest in the factory given me by my father. It's up to Knowlton to make that good."

"England!" she dreamed. "I'll love it, Ted! It'll be hard to leave my father, though. Dear old dad adores me."

"I'm not surprised," I said, taking her slender white hand to my lips.

"You mustn't tease, Ted. I'm serious today. Why didn't you bring me Leonidas?" It was, of course, useless to object to Helen's categories of "serious things."

"I thought best to try 'mother' with one thing at a time. Leonidas is chewing a slipper under my study table. In the bathroom he will find a bowl of bread and milk at his convenience."

Helen laughed: "I hope you'll take as good care of me, Ted." The maid announced dinner; Mr. Claybourne, with my assistance, carried Helen to the dining room, and we made great to-do of propping her up with cushions. Helen sent me back to the living room for her violets; they had to be at a certain spot on the table in front of her. I observed Mr. Claybourne pause for a second in the midst of his soup to watch Helen and her flowers; she kissed them when I put the bunch in front of her, which caused Mr. Claybourne to resume eating with some show of violence. "Mother" did not notice this by-play; she was scolding the maid because the soup was too hot and hadn't enough salt, and there was a draft somewhere that was bringing in all the kitchen smells, though for the life of me I couldn't detect any. The maid having been properly flustered and needlessly irritated, "Mother" turned with a sigh toward Helen.

"Ludwig hasn't sent you any flowers for a long time; I used to love those American beauties—where did he get them, Rosenstein's, wasn't it?"

I looked slyly at Helen, who blushed charmingly and became much interested in her plate. Mr. Claybourne gave a loud laugh.

"Mother, I think you scored a bull's eye that time!" he roared, in great enjoyment of his own joke.

"What have I said now?" "Mother" asked in her plaintive way, looking from one to another of us. "I should think I might be allowed to make a remark once in a while. I don't expect any one to talk to me or pay any attention to me, but I do claim the privilege of an occasional word in my own house."

Helen's low "Mother dear" was cut short by hearty Mr. Claybourne.

"Now, Lucy, don't go up in the air. No one was laughing at you; on the contrary, Ted's face was solemn as a judge's"—and he winked elaborately at me. By way of retort Mrs. Claybourne burst into tears and left the table. Mr. Claybourne, with a distinctly muttered "Damn" followed her at a decent interval.

"I'm sorry, Ted," said Helen, in defiance of the maid, putting her hand on mine. "Never let me become so spoiled, will you, dear?"

"As if you could!" I said, leaning toward her.

"The worst of it is," Helen continued, "poor mother really believes that she is a much neglected and abused woman, whereas dad does everything on earth to please and humour her. If only he would try firmness once! And she would be so much happier, too, instead of imagining herself the victim of 'nerves,' as she calls it."

"I'm not sure dispositions are curable."

Mr. Claybourne returned: "Go on with dinner, children; mother will be down in a few minutes. I'm afraid she has a sick headache; the shock of last night," he explained.

"Dear dad," Helen smiled.

"What are you dear dadding me for?" her father inquired, as he sharpened the carving knife.

"I shan't tell you, if you can't guess."

"Not another hat—or more pocket money?" he said seriously.

"No, father, of course not!"

He shook his head and concentrated on carving a pair of ducks. In due time "Mother" returned, red-eyed and resigned. She sat at table and refused all food, although both Mr. Claybourne and I danced about the room urging this and that upon her.

"I know what you need to cheer you up, old girl," shouted Mr. Claybourne with hilarity that began to sound a little forced, "a bottle of champagne"!

Mother protested that her head felt bad enough now; it was absurd extravagance and set a bad example in the kitchen, to say nothing of champagne on Sunday being a sacrilege: her husband pooh-poohed it all, and went down cellar after a bottle.

"Here, Ted! you open it," handing me a flagon of the widow Clicquot's special brew upon his re-entry. "I'll get the glasses."

"We have a waitress, Martin," was "Mother's" final protest.

With much coaxing, Mrs. Claybourne was induced to sip a little. Afterwards I noticed that she sipped it quite often when the rest of us were talking, until she gradually returned to an almost cheerful frame of mind. Mr. Claybourne's anecdotes and humorous stories increased in numbers; he sandwiched many toasts in between them: to "mother"; to Helen; to "happy days"; to the "young people"; to "rum—down with it," and like persiflage of an obvious nature. At each toast "mother" raised a feeble objection, less and less prolonged as time went on. We had another bottle, for Mr. Claybourne said "A quart among four is only a teaser—an aggravation." Once Helen risked taking my hand: "Be careful, Ted, won't you?" she whispered. I nodded. Mr. Claybourne saw us. "Ted is old enough to take care of himself, Helen," he admonished, winking at me. When the second bottle was emptied, Mr. Claybourne brought forth a humidor filled with large, black Havanas.

"Now, mother, we'll carry Helen into the living room, and Ted and I are going to sit here and talk business over our cigars." I started, and Helen's free foot lightly touched mine under the table. Mr. Claybourne was delighted with the effect of his dramatic announcement. His eyes twinkled as he watched us.

"I guess you thought the old man was asleep," he chuckled, as we picked Helen up. "I wasn't born yesterday."

"Can I stay, dad?" Helen asked.

"No, we'll attend to you later, young lady," and with this cryptic threat Helen was carried off. Of course things were not working out as I had planned, but I was beginning to get used to Fate's perversity.

"Light up, Ted," commanded Mr. Claybourne upon our return to the dining room. I obeyed; my hand was not so steady as I should have wished.

"Old man Tyler let slip something last night that has set me thinking, Ted," he continued, locking his hands behind his head and studying my face attentively. "So that was how the milk was spilt," I thought. "Of course, I must say a blind man could have told which way the wind blew," he added, with a reckless mixture of proverbs. There was a pause, during which I was trying to compose a suitable speech.

"Well, Ted, so you two kids imagine you're in love with each other?"

"We are," I said with a decision that surprised me. Again this wasn't the speech I had been composing.

"Suppose for the sake of argument we concede this point for the moment: was it playing square not to tell me?" and Mr. Claybourne blew a cloud of smoke rings toward the ceiling.

"We only found it out last night," I answered eagerly desirous to put myself in the right. "I came here today to tell you."

He looked sharply at me, chewing his cigar. I did not flinch this time.

"Some one was pretty slow," he said, breaking into a laugh. "I found it out two weeks ago." I moistened my lips and tried a smile on my own account.

"To come down to brass tacks, Ted, can you support a wife?"

"No, sir—at least, not yet."

"Then what right have you to go putting ideas in my little girl's head?"

"Because, sir, I love her, and there is good reason to believe that I shall be able to support her by next summer."

"I know more about your business, through my connection with the bank, than you do yourself," he commented. "Maybe what you say will be all right, and maybe it won't. Business is a funny game, Ted; with all your eggs in one basket you can't count your chickens before they're hatched." Proverbs always are annoying, if quoted against me.

"Well," I retorted, "my prospects are as good as the average young man's at my age, if not better." I was surprised at my own self-assurance.

"All right—we'll concede that, too," he said with a wave of his cigar. "Now, Ted, you know Helen's very young—only just out of school. Her tastes may change—probably will. She thinks she loves you, but she's only in love with love. Neither you nor she knows what love is."

"We have to take our chances with it, just as all young people do. By the time we learn what love is we can preach it to our grandchildren." It seemed, when I spoke, as if I were listening to a third person. I really wanted to be conciliatory, but the words came to suit themselves.

"You are sentencing yourselves to each other for life; it's a long penalty to pay if you make a mistake. As for love, that doesn't help much—not the kind of thing you imagine it to be, doesn't. Marriage means a lot of plain, everyday facts—a few pleasant, more unpleasant. I married for love," he concluded reflectively.

"Yes—and it brought you Helen." This time I knew I had scored. He laid his cigar down and looked out the window. Then he turned to me: "Ted, I'll put my cards on the table; if Helen wants you she shall have you. I've never gone against her will in anything important, and I don't intend to. I wish she was older, but there's no use wishing that now." I half rose to my feet in sheer joy. "Sit down, Ted; I'm not through. I make two conditions: first, I don't want you to say anything about this to any one but Helen's mother until Christmas. Let's see how you get on when you get to know each other better. Next, if Helen takes you, she must take you as you are. Because I have been fairly successful in business won't count at all. I'll not give her a cent before I go. Helen has to make her own choice and put up with it, whether it is riches or poverty."

"As far as I am concerned, I agree to both conditions." "You would," he assented drily. "Let's hear what Helen has to say about it."

We went into the next room, to find Helen hugging her violets to her bosom. "Mother" had gone upstairs for her afternoon rest. I boldly walked over to Helen and kissed her.

"Ted, I wish you'd stop all that until Christmas," Mr. Claybourne said grimly. We sat down, but Helen left her hand in mine.

"Well, little girl, Ted tells me you love him."

"Yes, dad dear." The look on Helen's face as she said this brought the tears to my eyes, and even Mr. Claybourne, with all his assumption of practicality, was none too comfortable.

He got up and paced the floor and gazed out at Myrtle Boulevard; then he came back to us.

"You've thought it all over—and made up your mind?" He stooped over her, turned her face up to his, and gently pushed the hair back on her forehead. Helen's grey eyes looked fearlessly into his.

"Yes, dad, I'm sure."

"What if I say 'no'?"

"You won't, dad—not when you know Ted. But if you do—why, dad, you believe I love you, don't you?—even if you said 'no' I should love Ted just the same."

Mr. Claybourne turned away and twisted one end of his moustache. There were no tears in Helen's eyes, only a quiet conviction in her voice which indicated a strength of character much like her father's. I knew that he too recognized it.

"I won't give you a penny, Helen; you've got to take him as he is, fight your own fight, and make your own way. I did it, and your grandfather did it; you'll have to do it, too."

"Then I shall do it," she answered, "as you did. I'm your daughter, and I'm not afraid—whatever the future brings, as long as I have Teddy—and he has me." She said it simply, unemotionally, like some one stating a fact.

"There's not much more to discuss, is there, Ted?" and he took my hand in a grip that hurt. "But mind you," he exclaimed, "you'll regard yourselves as both on probation. No announcement can be made before Christmas—and not then unless I say the word."

"If you don't say the word then, we'll simply run away," Helen came back at him with her dangerous calm. Then she smiled again: "Dear old dad."

He looked at me: "I warn you, Ted! You see what you are letting yourself in for. As far as I can judge, you haven't been consulted any more than I have."

"Father!" Helen interrupted.

"I hope you are prepared never to have your own way again, Edward, from this time forth."

"You can't frighten Ted that way," laughed Helen; "we both want the same things."

Mr. Claybourne snorted: "You hear that, Ted?"

I took Helen's hand, and she held it tight against her violets, crushing them and staining my palm with their fragrant juice. I didn't dare trust myself to speak.

"And now that it is all settled, let's break it to mother," Mr. Claybourne exploded with a grim attempt at his usual humour. He left the room without giving us a chance to object. I looked at Helen's face, more beautiful now than I had ever dreamed a woman's could be. A large tear rolled down her cheek, and I fell on my knees beside her, burying my face in her lap. She stroked my head.

"I'm not crying, Ted dear—I'm not the crying kind. I am just so happy I guess a—a little of it—overflowed." I kissed her wet cheek, and we sat in silence, waiting. Sounds of sobbing came from the stairs, and of patient, consolatory remarks. Helen smiled: "Poor mother—it sounds horrid to say it, but she always acts her part perfectly."

"Mother" entered, with smelling salts and dainty lace handkerchief, collapsed on her husband's shoulder, striving wonderfully for hysterics.

"Ted," said Mr. Claybourne, leading his wife to an easy chair, "I don't believe you are a very popular young man with part of the family—Lucy, I want you to shake hands with your future son-in-law."

I timidly advanced, an action which brought about a relapse. When she was a girl, daughters had the common decency to confide in their mothers; they didn't announce engagements to practically total strangers; they didn't get half-killed riding horseback with Tom, Dick, and Harry; they showed some consideration—some sense of the fitness of things; they went regularly to Church and were obedient. At this point Mr. Claybourne admitted a damaging piece of evidence.

"We ran away to be married, Lucy, when you were seventeen and we had just one hundred and twenty-seven dollars between us. What's more, I've never regretted it," he finished, with unexpected tenderness in his voice.

"Mother!" Helen pleaded, and she stretched out her arms. Mrs. Claybourne staggered across the room and melodramatically hurled herself upon her daughter. At the end of another outpouring of sobs and tears, she consented reluctantly to shake hands, and submitted to a formal kiss from me, at Helen's command. I am afraid I did not linger very long over it. With a few more remarks about no one having any regard for her wishes, or taking into consideration her nervous state, she began to cheer up remarkably.

Upon noting these favorable symptoms, Mr. Claybourne announced that he was off for the club, at the same time inviting me to stay and "amuse Helen" until after supper.

"I hope, Martin, you are not going to play cards on Sunday—at the least, not for money." Mr. Claybourne showed long practice in the skill with which he evaded a direct reply, and left hurriedly.

"I don't know what we shall do, Helen, when we announce your engagement. Neither of us have any clothes fit to wear."

I was staggered by this transition to the practical, but at least the implication was that the period of resistance was over.

"We can go to New York before Christmas," Helen said.

"Your father is always complaining I spend too much money," mother sighed, "although he seems to forget, Edward, that I have a grown-up daughter to manage. Of course, now I won't be able to go to Palm Beach for the winter, as I had planned, and this climate ............