There was a lot more of this, but it was repetition of the same statements and objections. By some mysterious process of feminine tact, Helen inserted the date of July 30th into the discussion, and to my intense and overwhelming amazement, Mrs. Claybourne suddenly sat up and announced that there wasn't a moment to lose. True, this was at the end of about two hours' futile struggle; nevertheless it was the unexpectedness of the surrender that left me speechless. Mrs. Claybourne at once launched into the subject next nearest her heart—clothes; her own imaginary ailments were number one.
Helen entered the debate in earnest at this point, and once more I was surprised, this time at Helen's powers of argument.
In the middle of this new controversy, which was after all but guerilla fighting now the main action had been won, Mr. Claybourne arose and announced his departure for the club. As I seemed to have no share in what was going on, I likewise deemed it prudent to go.
"Poor Ted," whispered Helen to me at the door, "I feel awfully sorry for you. You've been a lamb."
With this enigmatic compliment and a kiss, I was thrust into the night at Mr. Claybourne's side.
"Thank you," I said lamely, as we parted at the corner of State Street.
"Good-night, Ted. It's been quite a day's work."
Mine wasn't over. I sat up half the night writing a letter to my father. That was hard, too.