“A row? You and father? Oh, Arthur, I don’t like that. Don’t quarrel with father. Don’t, don’t. Some day he and I may have a serious difference about what I am doing. Don’t let him feel that he has lost us all.”
“That’s all right, Puss; but I’ve got to think of you a bit. I can’t see you spoil all your good times with these police horrors and not do something to help. To-morrow I begin life as a salesman in Clarke & Stebbin’s. The salary is not great, but every little helps and I don’t dislike the business. But father does. He had rather see me loafing about town setting the fashions for fellows as idle as myself than soil my hands with handling merchandise. That’s why we quarreled. But don’t worry. Your name didn’t come up, or—or—you know whose. He hasn’t an idea of why I want to work—There, Violet there!”
Two soft arms were around his neck and Violet was letting her heart out in a succession of sisterly kisses.
“O, Arthur, you good, good boy! Together we’ll soon make up the amount, and then—”
“Then what?”
A sweet soft look robbed her face of its piquancy, but gave it an aspect of indescribable beauty quite new to Arthur’s eyes.
Tapping his lips with a thoughtful forefinger, he asked:
“Who was that sombre-looking chap I saw bowing to you as we came out of church last Sunday?”
She awoke from her dreamy state with an astonishing quickness.
“He? Surely you remember him. Have you forgotten that evening in Massachusetts—the grotto—and—”