“To where we are going—No, you needn't laugh—I mean it. I don't care where we go,” and she looked at him intently. “I'll go with you anywhere in the world you say, and I'll start to-morrow.”
He caught her again in his arms, kissed her for the hundredth time, and then suddenly relaxing his hold asked in assumed alarm: “And what about your father? What do you think he will say? He always thought me a madcap scapegrace—didn't he?” The memory brought up no regret. He didn't care a rap what the Honorable Prim thought of him.
“Yes—he thinks so now,” she echoed, wondering how anybody could have formed any such ideas of her Harry.
“Well, he will get over it when I talk with him about his coffee people. Some of his agents out there want looking after.”
“Oh!—how lovely, my precious; talking coffee will be much pleasanter than talking me!—and yet we have got to do it somehow when he comes home.”
And down went her head again, she nestling the closer as if terrified at the thought of the impending meeting; then another kiss followed—dozens of them—neither of them keeping count, and then—and then—...................................
And then—Ben tapped gently and announced that dinner was served, and Harry stared at the moon-faced dial and saw that it was long after two o'clock, and wondered what in the world had become of the four hours that had passed since he had rushed down from his uncle's and into Kate's arms.
And so we will leave them—playing housekeeping—Harry pulling out her chair, she spreading her dainty skirts and saying “Thank you, Mr. Rutter—” and Ben with his face in so broad a grin that it got set that way—Aunt Dinah, the cook, having to ask him three times “Was he gwineter hab a fit” before he could answer by reason of the chuckle which was suffocating him.
And now as we must close the door for a brief space on the happy couple—never so happy in all their lives—it will be just as well for us to find out what the mischief is going on at the club—for there is something going on—and that of unusual importance.
Everybody is out on the front steps. Old Bowdoin is craning his short neck, and Judge Pancoast is saying that it is impossible and then instatly changing his mind, saying: “By jove it is!”—and Richard Horn and Warfield and Murdoch are leaning over the balcony rail still unconvinced and old Harding is pounding his fat thigh with his pudgy hand in ill-concealed delight.