LITMIR.BIZ

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the little house isn’t spoiling, even though you’re not sure about the tea-kettle and the awning. I—you don’t want to hurry things——”

      “Don’t I!”—rebelliously.

      “If I’m very good and say ‘Christmas’——”

      “ ‘Christmas!’—Great Cæsar!”

      “But, Tony——”

      “Now see here—” he leaned forward and stared up at her, without touching her—he was as yet allowed few of the lover’s favours and prized them the more for that—“do you think our case is just like other people’s? Here I’ve been waiting for you all my days—waiting and waiting, and tortured all the time by suspense. Then I lived that month of July with my heart in my mouth—you’ll never know what you put me through those days, talking and jollying about ‘Eleanor Langham,’ and never for one instant, until just that last day, giving me the smallest pinch of hope that it was anything to you except just what it pretended to be. Then—I’ve been a long time without a home—and the little house—sweetheart—it looks like Heaven to me. Must I stay outside till Christmas—when everything’s all ready? Confound it—I don’t want to play the pathetic string, and the Lord knows I’m happy as a fellow can be who’s got the desire of his life. But——”

      A warm hand came gently upon his hair, and for joy at the touch he fell silent. Once he turned his head and put his lips against the white sleeve as it fell near, and looked up an instant with eyes whose expression the person above him felt rather than saw through the subdued light. By and by she took up the conversation.

      “So you are rejoiced that I don’t want a great wedding?”

      “Immensely relieved.”

      “What would you like best?”

      “I don’t dare tell you.”

      “You may.”

      “Tell me what you would like, Julie.”

      “Of course father would say the town house, even if it were a small affair. Auntie Dingley would probably agree to having it here—if that were what you—we—wanted—that is——”

      Anthony looked up quickly. “Even at Christmas?”

      “Why—yes. We could come back. People do that sometimes.”

      “Yes. Must we do what other people do?”

      “Would you rather not?”

      “Ten thousand times. It seems to me that the biggest mistake people make is the way they do this thing. Juliet—think of the little house. We made it—you made it. For years, without doubt, it’s to hold us and our experiences. Do you know I’d like to give it this one to begin with?—I’m holding my breath!”

      Plainly she was holding hers. Her head was turned away—he could just see her profile outlined against the ruby light. And at the moment there were footsteps inside a long French window near at hand which lay open into the library. Mr. Horatio Marcy came out and stood still just behind them.

      Anthony sprang to his feet, and came forward up the steps. The older man greeted him cordially. Anthony pulled a big chair into position, and Mr. Marcy sat down. He was smoking and wore an air of relaxation. He and his guest fell to talking, the younger man entering into the conversation with as much ease and spirit as if he were not fresh from what was to him at this hour a much more interesting discussion. Juliet sat quietly and listened.

      It grew into an absorbing argument after a little, the two men taking opposite sides of a great governmental question just then claiming public interest. Mrs. Dingley came out and joined the group, and she and Juliet listened with increasing delight in a contest of brains such as was now offered them. Mr. Marcy himself, while he put forth his arguments with conviction and with skill, was evidently enjoying the keen wit and wisdom of his young opponent. The elder man met objection with objection, set up men of straw to be knocked down, and ended at last with a hearty laugh and a frankly appreciative:

      “Well, Anthony—you have convinced me of one thing, certainly. There are more sides to the question than I had understood. I will admit that you’ve made a strong argument. But when I come back I’ll down you with fresh material. I shall have plenty of it.”

      “Are you going away soon, sir?” Anthony asked with some surprise. Mr. Marcy was a frequent traveller, preferring to look after various business interests in faraway ports himself rather than entrust them to others.

      “Yes—I shall be off in a few weeks—and for a longer time than usual. I haven’t told these ladies of my household yet—but this is as good a time as any. Juliet, little girl—I may be gone all winter this time.”

      She came quickly to him without speaking, and gave him her regretful answer silently.

      “When do you go, Horatio?” Mrs. Dingley asked.

      “About the first of October. I hadn’t fully decided till to-day. I had thought of inviting you two to go with me.”

      He looked with a smile at his sister and his daughter, then somewhat quizzically at Anthony. The latter was regarding him with an alert face in which, as nearly as could be made out in the dim light, were no signs of discomfiture.

      “Horatio,” said Mrs. Dingley, “I wish you would come into the library for a few minutes. This reminds me of a letter I had to-day from one of your old friends, asking when you were to be at home.”

      The French window closed on the two older people. Juliet, left sitting on the arm of her father’s chair, found Anthony behind her.

      “Do you want to go on a voyage to the Philippines?” he was asking over her shoulder.

      “I’m not sure just what I do want,” she answered rather breathlessly.

      “The tea-kettle would rust while you were gone.”

      He got no reply.

      “The dust would grow inches deep on the dining-table we polished so carefully.”

      Juliet rose and walked slowly to the edge of the steps. Anthony followed. “Let’s go and walk on the terrace,” he proposed, and they ran down to the smooth sward below. It was a warm night, with no dew, and the short-shaven grass was dry. All the stars were out. Anthony walked beside the figure in white, his hands clasped behind his back.

      “Do white ruffled curtains like those at our windows ever grow musty from being shut up?” he insinuated gently.

      “I don’t know.”

      “Will you write from every port you touch at? It will take a good many letters to satisfy me.”

      “I suppose so.”

      “Suppose what? That you will write?”

      Juliet stood still. “You’re the greatest wheedler I ever saw,” she said.

      “Is that a compliment?”

      “It’s not meant for one. What am I to do when I’m——”

      “Married to me?—I don’t know, poor child. I can only pity you. What do you think the prospect is for me, never to be able to get the smallest concession from you except by every art of coaxing? Yet—if I can get this thing I want, by any means—I warn you I shall not give up until I’ve seen you sail.”

      “You’ll not see me sail.”

      He wheeled upon her. He had her hand in his grasp. “And if you don’t go?”

      “I’ll stay.”

      “With me?”

      She laughed irresistibly. “How could I stay without you?”

      “Will you marry me before

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