"To leave," he replied quickly, as he made for the door.
Another occasion was more complicated. This time it was the girl herself, a girl he had vowed to work and wait for forever if necessary. Suggesting that they omit the waiting and do the working upon their respective parents, the girl persuaded him to elope, very much against his will. It was the last thing he wanted. To love and run was far more to his fancy. Letting drop the fact of what they contemplated where it would percolate quickly, he drove off with the bride-to-be in a dog-cart.
During this drive his wits got to working. At one parsonage after another they stopped, young Edgar getting out and inquiring at the door, only to drive on again. After an hour or so the girl's father overtook them. The elopement was off; the would-be bride in tears. Instead of inquiring for a clergyman to marry them, he had very politely inquired the way to the next village.
A danger escaped is always a ready theme for conversation, and it amused him more than a little to tell of this episode with the comment:
"No woman could drag me to the altar, I could slide like water through a crack and vanish."
So he could. A more ingenious man at evading anything he disliked never existed. While agreeing with every appearance of delight, he was concocting a clever escape. He always managed to slip through, as he said.
Of his father and brother he saw but little during these years. The latter had to his credit a volume of verse, "Honey and Gall," and half a dozen operas, one of which he had conducted himself.
On the table near my hand is a copy of "Honey and Gall," an original, bound in green. On the fly-leaf in Frank's characteristic hand is written:
EDGAR E. SALTUS
With the love and good wishes of his most affectionate brother,