erfectly."

"Young?"

"Very. Out last season."

Selwyn rose and began to pace the floor; Kit-Ki, disturbed, looked up,
then resumed her purring.

"There's nothing dishonourable in this, of course," said Selwyn, halting
short.

"No," said the boy. "I went to her mother and asked for her, and was
sent about my business. Then I went to her father. You know him. He was
decent, bland, evasive, but decent. Said his daughter needed a couple of
seasons in London; hinted of some prior attachment. Which is rot;
because she loves me--she admits it. Well, I said to him, 'I'm going to
marry Gladys'; and he laughed and tried to look at his moustache; and
after a while he asked to be excused. I took the count. Then I saw
Gladys at the Craigs', and I said, 'Gladys, if you'll give up the whole
blooming heiress business and come with me, I'll make you the happiest
girl in Manhattan.' And she looked me straight in the eyes and said,
'I'd rather grow up with you than grow old forgetting you.'"

"Did she say that?" asked Selwyn.

"She said,'We've the greatest chance in the world, Gerald, to make
something of each other. Is it a good risk?' And I said, 'It is the best
risk in the world if you love me.' And she said, 'I do, dearly; I'll
take my chance.' And that's how it stands, Philip. . . . She's at the
Craigs'--a suit-case and travelling-gown upstairs. Suddy Gray and Betty
Craig are standing for it, and"--with a flush--"there's a little church,
you know--"

"Around the corner. I know. Did you telephone?"

"Yes."

There was a pause; the older man dropped his hands into his pockets and
stepped quietly in front of Gerald; and for a full minute they looked
squarely at one another, unwinking.

"Well?" asked Gerald, almost tremulously. "Can't you say, 'Go ahead!'?"

"Don't ask me."

"No, I won't," said the boy simply. "A man doesn't ask about such
matters; he does them. . . . Tell Austin and Nina. . . . And give this
note to Eileen." He opened a portfolio and laid an envelope in Selwyn's
hands. "And--by George!--I almost forgot! Here"--and he laid a check
across the note in Selwyn's hand--"here's the balance of what you've
advanced me. Thank God, I've made it good, every cent. But the debt is
only the deeper. . . . Good-bye, Philip."

Selwyn held the boy's hand a moment. Once or twice Gerald thought he
meant to speak, and waited, but when he became aware of the check thrust
back at him he forced it on Selwyn again, laughing: