Mrs. Goodchild had intended to be stern, but the young man's undisguised admiration softened her wrath to pleasant sarcasm.
"I wished to see for myself," she said, not very hostilely, "if you were insane. I see you are—"
"I am," agreed H. R., amicably, "and have been since I saw her. And the worst of it is, I am very proud of it."
"Will you oblige me by leaving this house quietly?"
"Certainly," H. R. assured her. "I didn't come to stay—this time. I'm glad to have seen you. Has Grace told you I'm to be your son-in-law?"
He looked at her proudly, yet meekly. It was wonderful how well he managed to express the conflict. Then he apologized contritely. "I was too busy to call before. My grandmother has never met you, has she?" He looked at her anxiously, eager to clear Mrs. Goodchild's name before the court of his family.
At one fell swoop H. R. had deleted the name of Goodchild from the society columns.
Mrs. Goodchild said, huskily, "Frederick, ring for a policeman."
"I'll break his damned neck if he does," said H. R., with patrician calmness. "Don't you ever again dare to listen while I am here, Frederick. You may go."
H. R. looked so much as if he meant what he said that Grace was pleasantly thrilled by his masterfulness. But not for worlds would she show it facially. When a woman can't lie to the man who loves her she lies to herself by looking as she does not feel.