“Well, I’m sorry, but he ain’t mine, and that settles it. You’ll live to thank me for it.”
“Well, here’s fair warning: I don’t give him up.”
“Oh, I guess you will.”
“You are trying to make the worst mistake of your life, father,” she said reasonably. “Now a mushy daughter would give in and let you repent it later; but I think it’s a lot better to save you from it, and you’ll live to thank me yet.”
“I’ll live to take you East and leave you there with your Aunt Jennie, till you’ve got sense, if I hear any more of this.”
“Well, then, you won’t hear any more about it.” And she went out.
“The little cuss!” he muttered. Then he sat down and wrote a letter beginning, “Dear Jennie,” and ending, “For heaven’s sake, wire that you will take her, or she’ll be off with him—by the front door and in broad daylight, understand. She’s a straight little cuss. What an everlasting shame she wasn’t a boy!”
Even as he signed: “Your aff. Bro.,” the massive front door banged; but he was too absorbed to notice it. Paula, calm and serious, carrying a suit-case, took a car for the station where a young man was nervously pacing the platform. He stood watching her for a moment before she saw him. The clear red of her cheeks was no deeper than usual, her blue eyes were unclouded, in all her handsome, well-dressed person there was not one hurried movement. She even paused to compare her watch with the station clock. An irrepressible laugh brought the color back to his face. “Oh, Paula, so you are here,” as he hurried to meet her. “You elope as calmly as you would go shopping.”
“It’s a far more sensible proceeding! Have you the tickets?”
“Not yet, dear Paula, I want you enough to commit almost any crime—you know that, and yet I can’t quite square it with myself—this running away with a man’s daughter. And—such a rich man, confound it! I’ve been awake all night thinking over one thing. You swept me off my feet yesterday; but to-day—”