"Gwendolen," said her father, drawing her close, "is this true?"
She clung to him, crying just a little in her excitement. "Yes, dad, if you are willing—if it will not make you unhappy. He has talked with me,—of the other thing; he has comforted me,—though he believes it to be, oh, so terrible! Are you—willing, dearest father?"
Todd put an arm around each, pressing the brown and the golden heads close. "I wish it of all things," he said. "Dodge is an American and a gentleman; nothing is better than that. Just now this—happiness of yours is a gift of God, for I bring nothing joyous."
"Tell us everything," pleaded Gwendolen. "I can stand anything now; my heart couldn't break with you one side of it, and h-him the other." Dodge went around to his side.
"I—I—guess it would be safer to tell it in the private office," said Todd, beginning to fumble for a handkerchief. "To tell you the truth, Gwen,—I'd really like—if you don't mind, my dears,—to turn woman and have one good cry."
"Come on," said Gwendolen; "I'll cry with you. I am so mi-mi-miserable and hap-hap-happy, I just can't—" She broke off in tears.
"I'm in!" said Dodge, pulling out his handkerchief.
Laughing and crying together, with arms around one another, they went in at the tall gate and to the ambassador's little den.
In the big house, in the drawing-room, Mrs. Stunt and Madame Todd exchanged mild confidences and cooking recipes. The latter had refused for once to discuss the affairs either of Pierre or Madame Haganè.
And so the night came in.