She stole a glance at her handsome companion, and, seeing that he was observing her, quickly lowered her eyes. The Captain had a flattering way of studying her poses, remarking on the lines of her gowns and her hats. He was constantly discovering interesting things about her that she had not known before. But sometimes, as now, she was restive under his too close scrutiny.
"So you are actually going to leave me next week?" he asked, with a note of personal aggrievement.
"To leave you? I like that! If it weren't for you I shouldn't be going."
"Are they really sending you away on my account?"
"Indeed they are. Grandmother says you are encouraging me about the stage, and that poor Papa Claude is demoralizing us both."
"Isn't that absurd?" said the Captain. "Dear old C. M. is about as innocuous as a peacock. Madam Bartlett should have been born in the seventeenth century. What will she say when she sees your name blazing over a Broadway theater?"
"In one of your plays! Oh, Captain, wouldn't that be glorious?"
"Haven't I asked you to drop the 'Captain'? My name is Harold. Say it!"
"No; I can't."
"Yes, you can. Come!"