“Aaron, how can I break it up?”
“Well—in a nominating convention, if you want to beat a popular candidate, you’ve got to have a man to beat him with. It’s the same way in these heart matters. Find another man—one she’ll like better.”
Clearwater groaned. “These damned young nincompoops you find round in society!” he cursed. “Really I can’t blame her for taking the first fellow with jump and ginger.”
Old Tingley nodded. “The altar men—the fellows that’ll marry young girls—do seem to be mighty poor pickings. At least here in Washington—in ‘our set.’”
When Helm entered the presence of Eleanor his manner had lost its frigidness and reserve but none of the gravity. She flung herself into his arms, clung to him passionately with a complete giving up of herself to her love for him. He held her, he caressed her gently, he showed in every look and gesture how deeply he loved her. Yet—if she had not been so intoxicated by her emotions, she would have felt, would have seen that this peculiar young man not only was master of her love but also was master of his own.
“I knew you wouldn’t let anything come between us,” said she. “George, how wonderful it is to love a man one simply couldn’t doubt. Do you feel that way about me?”
“That’s why we’re engaged,” said he. “That’s why we’ve got to marry.”
“Father’ll get over this,” she assured him. Helm shook his head. “No; he’ll be worse and worse—more against me. It can’t possibly be otherwise. When you go with me, you leave him.”
“Let’s not talk about that!” cried she. “Since I’ve got to marry you—the rest doesn’t matter.”
“But you’ve thought about it?” insisted he. “You realize what you’re doing?”