This beautiful figure of speech in turn made her think of marriage. If she married Reggie or Mr. Watson or Percival or one of the others, what would her married life be? What? One long visit to Philadelphia! "I could kill him!" she said to the flower-holder, frowning fiercely. Happening to catch a glimpse of herself in the mirror for that purpose provided in an town cars, Grace smoothed her brow and smiled. A man would have required slathers of flattery to dispel ill-humor. With a woman, the truth is enough. A mirror does not lie. Providence is more than kind to them; even automatic. If she wouldn't marry Reggie or the others and did marry H. R.-- But how could she? She was an imaginative American girl with a sunshiny soul and much vitality who lived in New York. She thought of her marriage to H. R. She thought of the newspapers! The mound of clippings that instantly loomed before her made her gasp. What wouldn't the newspapers do when _she_ married H. R., especially if H. R., prompted by love, really made an effort? She was forced to admit that he was a remarkable man! "Papa," she said aloud, "will never consent!" Papa's life had been made miserable by H. R. Indeed, the only thing that reconciled him to the ungrateful task of living was the steady growth of the bank's deposits. It was due, Mr. Goodchild often declared, to his management. But he couldn't speak about H. R. without profanity. Parental opposition was not everything. Marriage was a serious thing. XXVII The motor stopped. She had arrived at her house. The car door was opened by H. R. She started back. Then she looked at him curiously, almost awe-strickenly, as though her wishes had taken on magical properties of automatic fulfilment. Was this the same remarkable person she had almost deified on the way from Raquin's exhibition? What would he say? She prayed that he might not spoil everything, by some inanity. He held out his hand to help her alight. Then he spoke. "It was time!" he said, and walked beside her--but a couple of inches ahead. That was because, though he was an American husband-to-be, he also was a man, a protector, a leader. Such men are cave-men minus the club. Grace at times was not a true Goodchild. This time she said nothing. Frederick opened the door. His face expressed no sense of the unusualness of the sight. H. R., with the air of a host, led Grace into the drawing-room. He stood beside her in the gorgeous Louis XV. room. "Grace," he said, gently, "for twenty-nine days I've been the unhappiest man in all New York. For five, the unhappiest in the entire world!" "Will you kindly release my hand?" she asked. No sooner had the words left her lips than she realized they were piffle. Then she began to laugh. It was the first official acknowledgment that no social barriers divided them. "Suppose," she asked, with a humorously intended demureness, "that I wished to use my handkerchief?"