Bartlett flushed and dismissed Henrietta from the conversation. "My dear Billy, you have only known him a week."
"I know, father," agreed Billy, "but a week is long enough to fall in love in. Truly, it is, father. And we both care so much, so very much."
Bartlett was secretly elated at the idea. He and Batchelor, with their differences reconciled, fighting together, instead of each other, would become rulers of the Street, could attain to any height. Batchelor was young, clever, lovable. There seemed nothing to object to. But he felt that he should. Conventionality, Henrietta, Mrs. Grundy, one or all would clearly see that there was something wrong, would counsel delay, waiting. He had never given a daughter away in marriage and was not sure what to do. He hemmed and hawed and wished that he could consult Henrietta.
"We don't want the others to know," went on Billy guilefully. "Wait until we get to the town before you say anything, won't you, father?"
"But, Billy, a week."
"Now, father," advised Billy, "just forget it. And I will forget about you and Henrietta."
"About me and Henrietta?" snapped Bartlett.
"Yes," said Billy, "and last night on the porch when you thought we had all gone in."
"That will do, Billy. We did nothing at all but say good night. I have no objection to Batchelor as a son-in-law from what I know of him; but only a week—"
"It was only an hour," said Billy. "I loved him that very first day. And please, father, you won't say anything, will you, even to him, about it? Just be nice to him, you know. And then I won't say anything."