rst
love that matters--_Romeo_ and _Juliet_, you know. Afterward we all get
hardened and world-worn and cynical and material." He stopped short in
his eloquence at the thought that Mrs. Wayne was quite obviously not
hardened or world-worn or cynical or material. "By Jove!" he thought to
himself, "that's it. The woman's spirit is as fresh as a girl's." He had
by this time utterly forgotten what he had meant to say.

Adelaide turned to her husband.

"Do you think they are in love, Vin?"

Vincent looked at her for a second, and then he nodded two or
three times.

Though no one at once recognized the fact, the engagement was settled at
that moment.

It seemed obvious that Mr. Lanley should take the Waynes home in his car.
Mrs. Wayne, who had prepared for walking with overshoes and with pins for
her trailing skirt, did not seem too enthusiastic at the suggestion. She
stood a moment on the step and looked at the sky, where Orion, like a
banner, was hung across the easterly opening of the side street.

"It's a lovely night," she said.

It was Pete who drew her into the car. Her reluctance deprived Mr.
Lanley of the delight of bestowing a benefit, but gave him a faint sense
of capture.

In the drawing-room Mathilde was looking from one to the other of her
natural guardians, like a well-trained puppy who wants to be fed. She
wanted Pete praised. Instead, Adelaide said:

"Really, papa is growing too secretive! Do you know, Vin, he and Mrs.
Wayne quarreled like mad last evening, and he never told me a word
about it!"

"How do you know?"

"Oh, I heard them trying to smooth it out at dinner."

"O Mama," wailed Mathilde, between admiration and complaint, "you hear
everything!"

"Certainly, I do," Adelaide returned lightly. "Yes, and I heard you, too,
and understood everything that you meant."

Vincent couldn't help smiling at his stepdaughter's horrified look.

"What a brute you are, Adelaide!" he said.

"Oh, my dear, you're much worse," she retorted. "You don't have to
overhear. You just read the human heart by some black magic of your own.
That's really more cruel than my gross methods."

"Well, Mathilde," said Farron, "as a reader of the human heart, I want to
tell you that I approve of the young man. He has a fine, delicate touch
on life, which, I am inclined to think, goes only with a good deal of
strength."

Mathilde blinked her eyes. Gratitude and delight had brought
tears to them.

"He thinks you're