"Well," she said with mock severity, "what do you mean, sir, by forcing your way into the house in this fashion?"
Belowstairs Mrs. Claybourne was repeatedly ordering me to come down. I wondered how long I dared ignore her.
"Helen," I gasped, "I must see you alone—my father's cable—the best news—urgent."
Helen caught my arm, and the strength of her grasp surprised me. "Ted—you don't mean?—is it true?"
"Yes," I choked, "as soon as we can make all arrangements."
She planted a sudden kiss square on my mouth just as Mrs. Claybourne toiled to the top of the stairs, in breathless and exasperated pursuit.
"Helen, I'm surprised at you—and at Edward. You are not properly dressed—go to your room at once."
By way of reply, Helen did the most surprising thing. She deliberately kicked as high as the rather tight kimono would permit, threw her arms around her mother's neck, and, frantically kissing her, bore Mrs. Claybourne heavily to ground in a sitting posture on top of a cedar clothes chest. I had never seen Helen before in a reckless state of high spirits. Mrs. Claybourne energetically fought off her daughter's embraces.
"Helen Claybourne," she exclaimed, "don't you dare tell me that you and Edward are going to be married. I won't hear it!"
"We are, mother, we are!" cried the excited child, and flung her arms about me, leading me around the hall in a wild and undignified dance. I feebly protested, fearing at least double-woman-power hysterics from Mrs. Claybourne. But "mother" was made of sterner stuff when it came to a pinch. Her lips narrowed to an ominous straight line as she got upon her feet.