“Oh, Max, he never spoke such lovely words as those to me.”
“He did not care for you as I do, my own darling. He tired of you, and I never shall. His nature was too shallow to appreciate your true worth. But there, do not think of him; trust me, and we shall be happy.”
“My papa owns a beautiful home in San Francisco, and a lovely cottage at San Bernardino. Of course, we will be allowed to take our choice.”
“The cottage will be more suited to our taste, for you and I, darling, will live only for each other, and the cottage will be more secluded,” said he.
“It shall be as you wish,” she said.
When they reached San Bernardino, Irene sent word 186 to her father, who was visiting a friend a few miles distant, so the landlord said. Max thought the greeting between father and daughter was rather a strange one, as he did not seem greatly delighted to see her, but Rene told Max “it was only papa’s way.”
“Why,” said Mapleton, “didn’t you let a fellow know you was coming, and not drop down like this?”
“I thought we would come and surprise you,” she answered, smiling, “and, beside, Max thought it best not to put off coming.”
“Max? I thought his name was Scott.”
“Oh, well it is,” Rene answered quickly, framing a falsehood, “but you see his name is Scott Maxwell, and I like the name Max best, so I call him that.”