"I mean I'm not going to write."
"Not at all?"
"Not till we are married. I will write home then."
Paul whistled meditatively.
"Mind telling why?" he queried. "Can't say that this play seems according to Hoyle, either."
Jean's real reason was rooted in a fear that Mrs. Fanshaw's erratic conscience might be capable of a motherly epistle to Paul, setting forth the refuge history. So she answered that she and her family were not in sympathy, and was overjoyed to find that Paul thought her excuse valid.
"I know just how you feel," he said. "My governor and I could never hit it off. But about writing your mother: we'll need her consent, you know. You're still under twenty-one."
"I come of age September tenth."
"But we want to be married the third week in August."
"We can't," said Jean; and that was the end of it.