"You haven't thrown him over, have you?"
"Thrown Jimsy over? Thrown—" she stopped and drew a long breath. "I could just as easily throw myself over. Why, we—belong! We're part of each other. I just—can't think of myself without thinking of Jimsy—or of Jimsy without thinking of me." She said it quite simply and steadily and smiled when she finished.
"I see," said the novelist. "Yes. I see. But you're both frightfully young, aren't you? I expect your people will make you wait a long time, won't they?"
"Well," said Honor, earnestly, "we're going to try our very best to wait three years,—three from the time when we found out we were in love with each other, you know,—two years longer now. Then we'll be twenty-one." She spoke as if every one should be satisfied then, if they dragged out separate existences until they had attained that hoary age, and Miss Bruce-Drummond, hard on forty-one, grinned with entire good nature.
"And I daresay they'll keep you over here all the while,—not let you go home for holidays, for fear you might lose your heads and bolt for Gretna Green?"
"Mercy, no!" Her eyes widened, startled. "I shall go home for all summer next year! I meant to go this year, but Muzzie thought I ought to stay, to be with Carter and Mrs. Van Meter, when they'd made such lovely plans for me,—and it was really all right, this time, because Jimsy ought to be with his father on the Mexican trip." Her smooth brow registered a fleeting worry over James King the elder. "But next summer it'll be home, and Catalina Island, and Jimsy!"
But it wasn't home for her next summer, after all. Mildred Lorimer decided that she wanted three months on the Continent with her husband and her daughter.
"Right," said Stephen Lorimer, amiably, "so long as we take the boy along."
"You mean Rodney?" she wanted to know, not looking at him. (Rodney was the youngest Lorimer.)