that they had actually been on the point of taking out their marriage
license. She thought it was enough to tell her mother that the trip had
been abandoned and that Pete had given up his job. Pete contemplated
nothing less than the whole truth.

"You can't tell people half a story," he said. "It never works."

Mathilde really quailed.

"It will be terrible to tell mama that," she groaned. "She thinks
failure is worse than crime."

"And she's dead right," said Pete.

When Adelaide came in she had Mr. Lanley with her. She had seen him
walking down Fifth Avenue with his hat at quite an outrageous angle, and
she had ordered the motor to stop, and had beckoned him to her. It was
two days since her interview with Mrs. Baxter, and she had had no good
opportunity of speaking to him. The suspicion that he was avoiding her
nerved her hand; but there was no hint of discipline in her smile, and
she knew as well as if he had said it that he was thinking as he came to
the side of the car how handsome and how creditable a daughter she was.
"Come to lunch with me," she said; "or must you go home to your guest?"

"No, I was going to the club. She's lunching with a mysterious relation
near Columbia University."

"Don't you know who it is? Tell him home."

"Home, Andrews. No, she never says."

"Don't put your stick against the glass, there's an angel. I'll tell you
who it is. An elder sister who supported and educated her, of whom she's
ashamed now."

"How do you know? It wouldn't break the glass."

"No; but I hate the noise. I don't know; I just made it up because it's
so likely."

"She always speaks so affectionately of you."

"She's a coward; that's the only difference. She hates me just as much."

"Well, you've never been nice to her, Adelaide."

"I should think not."

"She's not as bad as you think," said Mr. Lanley, who believed in
old-fashioned loyalty.

"I can't bear her," said Adelaide.

"Why not?" As far as his feelings went, this seemed a perfectly safe
question; but it wasn't.

"Because she tries so hard to make you ridiculous. Oh, not intentionally;
but she talks of you as if you were a _Don Juan_ of twenty-five. You
ought to be flattered, Papa dear, at having jealous scenes made about you
when you are--what is it?--sixty-five."

"Four," said Mr. Lanley.

"Yes; such a morning as I had! Not a minute with poor Vincent because you
had had Mrs. Wayne to dine. I'm not complaining, but I don't like my