rty water. He's been a soldier three years. The way I came to know
him was at Dinard where he swam out into the sea to save a fisherman
who couldn't swim, and all the town was out in the storm to welcome
him! They carried him up the streets in their arms--" she waited a
minute to steady her voice--"He's been two years exploring in Abyssinia
with a native caravan--no white man near him, he's the youngest man
wearing the Legion d'Honneur in France. _And you want to send him out
to make a cowboy of him in the American West to turn him into a man_!"

Mr. Bulstrode had never heard such impressive youthful scorn. Molly
threw back her pretty head and laughed.

"Do you know many cowboys who have been three years a soldier;
travelled through unexplored countries; written a book that was crowned
by an academy? Well, I don't!" she said boldly. "Of course I like his
title, of course I am proud of his traditions. They're fine! And it
is no dishonor to love his chateau and his Paris hotel, and I'd love
his mother, too--if she'd let me. But I adore Maurice _as he is_, and
he's man enough for me!"

The floor seemed to quiver under poor Bulstrode, who could scarcely see
distinctly the lovely excited face as he ventured timidly:

"I didn't know all these things, Molly."

She was still unpitying.

"Of course not! Americans never do know. They only _judge_. You
didn't think Maurice would tell you all his good points! He doesn't
think they are anything. He only sees the fact that he has debts and
that we are both poor and his family won't give their consent."

Mr. Bulstrode smiled and said:

"He is naturally forced to see these things, my dear child."

The girl softened at his tone and said more gently:

"Well, they are terrible facts, of course. It only means that my heart
is broken, but it doesn't mean that I will consent to your plan, or to
his plan, Mr. Bulstrode. I won't make him break his mother's heart and
ruin his career for me."

The gentleman came up and took her hands: his voice was very gentle:

"What, then, will you do?"

"Oh, wait," she said with less spirit. "Wait until his mother
consents, or until she dies...." She began to hang her head. Her
eulogy of her lover over, only the dry facts of the present remained.
She had no more enthusiasm with which to animate her voice.

Here Mrs. Falconer and the Marquis opened the door, and started back as
the animated picture of beauty being consoled b