THE SUITOR.

Press, Volume LXIII, Issue 12971, 26 November 1907, Page 2

THE SUITOR.

Bt Tom MJuaov. He reached forward and took her hand in hU. For a momenta-it seemed to nim only an instant of tune, and vet it wae just long enough to convey its own meaning-*nd allowed !t to xemain. Then ehe withdrew it. Ho tea* a wise young man. If hef had attempted to pursue «Ten this infinitesimal advantage and to reach forward again douMJees he would have been rebuked in that queenly manner which upon occasion she could bo easily command. ... ~ . And so he was content to wait, and change the subject. It is proper to state, however, that the new subject was more m line with hia real train of thought than tie end. They had, when he made his advance, been talking on the oommonplaoe topic of the latest historical novel. Now he turned alowly and looked her squarely in the eye. "I'm going to marry you," he said. "Are you, indeed? When did you make up your mind to that? "Oh, aome time ago. I mean it, you know." .„. „, "And lose a million? He turned again, abruptly. "How did you know anything about that?" he asked. "Yon" father told mc. "When?" "Oh, some time ago. He called." "Why you must have known, then '-" "That you wanted to marry meP No, I didn't. " All I knew was that you had spoken to your father about it. lou know you might have changed your mind—afterward." He smiled grimly. . "What you mean," he eaid, "is this: That I thought it best to consult the governor first and find out where I etood with him before I found out where I stood with you." He got up and took a turn around the room. , . ~ , "Well, that wasn't exactly it, he continued. "You see, if I had any doubt about marrying you I wouldnt have done that. I would have gone for you first and let the rest go. I meant business, and I thought it ought to be done right. Besides, I said to myself: , "'lf the old man turns mc down, then my conscience fe clear. , " i She apparently unheeded the laet I part of his remark. !"May I aek," she eaid, "what made you so cure of mc?" "I waen't. But I was sure of myself. I knew the girl I wanted. That is everything in love." "You eeeni to have gotten very wise all of a sudden." ! He grasped the top of the tarnished gilt chair with both hands and leaned against it hard as he looked into her "I've knocked around some," he said. "Since I left college I've run ■ with the Newport crowd and the high people in town. I've had a lot of girls thrown my way, but I wouldn't ?'ve a -white chip for the whole gang. ye aeen them at their best and worst. They're all riglrb-eome of them. It's the life I don't fancy. I don't care for the pace." It was her turn to emile. " But there's nothing about mc," she said, "that ought to specially recommend iteelf to you. why. I «*en have to earn my own" living." "But your grandmother didn't, did she?" "Why, no; I suppose not. She was a Puritan." "Well, mine did. I've heard the governor tell the story. So what's the difference? A few years of time, more or less, a generation or so." She opened her eyes rather wide. "You seem to have taken on such n sudden weight of accumulated philoSoplrr," ehe said, "that I hardly recognise you. Where's Jack Wakefield, member of twenty clubs, the great polo player, the howling swell P That sort of .{elky doesn't go with auoh depth aa this." ''Oan't a man do that sort of thing anil still bo a man?" "Why, of course, but they don't go together as a rule " "Well, maybe you did that for mo, or maybe the governor got mc mad; I don't know which. He'e lived so much by himself of late yeara that the old fellow is crabbed, I guess. But ho did turn mo down hard." did he cay?" "I don't know that I can rehearse it all—it was some time ago. But the main point was that if I married' you he'd disinherit mc. My allowance would continue, but no more. He must have gone direct to you to make a sure thing of it, didn't he?" She turned her head slowly and looked far away out of the dingy window, beyond the street, past the whirl of the great town, into the unknown distance. "Yes," ehe eaid, "several tim«e. He doesn't want you to many mc. Not n ' bit." "Well, it doesn't make any difference to mc whether he does or not. l> " can go out and bustle for myself. Money isn't everything." The boarding-house bell rang—not an unusual occurrence Outside there was the clow enorting of an automobile. Ho drew nearer to her. Again he took her hind. "Helen, deer," he eaid, "what'e the ' answer f" She brushed «way * tear. "I cannot marry you," ehe said. "You're too good for mc." He laughed a spontaneous, hearty laugh. "That's a good joke," he said. "Too good for you. Ha! Look herel Let's be honest with each other. I've had slathers of money, and there's nothing in it. Why spoil the game just because of a paltry million? I tell you it's all right. I assure you I'll never mention the matter again. We can live." She shook her head. "I cannot marry you," ehe eaid. "You don't love any ono eke, do you?" There was no answer. " I know what il v is,"-he said. "It's your pride. Never mind, I can wait. Of course, it's embarrassing for you. You don't care anything about the money, of course, but your conscience troubles you about my losing it—naturally. Well, never mind. I'll show yon. But now, dear, can't, you give "ine some Irttle word of encouragement?" , • A capleee maid • entered the musty drawing-room, holding in her red fingers a card. "For you, miss," said tbe maid. "Very well, Martha. Ask him into the small reception room, as usual." Then she held out the missive to 'Tm afraid," she eaid. "there is no! hope for you. You see, lam going to i marry this gentleman.' ' He took in the familiar name in one burning glance. ... i "The governor! he exclaimed. ;