e he's good at tennis."

"What _does_ a girl see to love in a man?" I inquired abruptly; and
paused on the verge of a great discovery.

"Oh, I don't know," she replied, most unsatisfactorily.

And I could draw no views from her.

"But about father," said she. "What _are_ we to do?"

"He objects to me."

"He's perfectly furious with you."

"Blow, blow," I said, "thou winter wind. Thou art not so unkind--"

"He'll never forgive you."

"As man's ingratitude. I saved his life--at the risk of my own. Why, I
believe I've got a legal claim on him. Whoever heard of a man having
his life saved, and not being delighted when his preserver wanted to
marry his daughter? Your father is striking at the very root of the
short-story writer's little earnings. He mustn't be allowed to do it."

"Jerry!"

I started.

"Again!" I said.

"What?"

"Say it again. Do, please. Now."

"Very well. Jerry!"

"It was the first time you had called me by my Christian name. I don't
suppose you've the remotest notion how splendid it sounds when you
say it. There is something poetical, something almost holy, about it."

"Jerry, please!"

"Say on."

"Do be sensible. Don't you see how serious this is? We must think how
we can make father consent."

"All right," I said. "We'll tackle the point. I'm sorry to be
frivolous, but I'm so happy I can't keep it all in. I've got you, and
I can't think of anything else."

"Try."

"I'll pull myself together.... Now, say on once more."

"We can't marry without father's consent."

"Why not?" I said, not having a marked respect for the professor's
whims. "Gretna Green is out of date, but there are registrars."

"I hate the very idea of a registrar," she said with decision.
"Besides--"

"Well?"

"Poor father would never get over it. We've always been such friends.
If I married against his wishes, he would--oh, you know--not let me
come near him again, and not write to me. And he would hate it all the
time he was doing it. He would be bored to death without me."

"Anybody would," I said.

"Because, you see, Norah has never been quite the same. She has spent
such a lot of her time on visits to people that she and father don't
understand each other so well as he and I do. She would try and be
nice to him, but she wouldn't know him as I do. And, besides, she will
be with him such a little, now she's going to be married."

"But, look here," I said, "this is absurd. You say your father wou