H. R. with his disengaged hand took his own out of his pocket and held it to her nose. "Blow!" he said, tenderly. "I don't want to," she retorted and tried to pull away her hand. He replaced his handkerchief in his pocket. "All over but the mailing-list," he said to her. "Sit down here; by me!" Something within her stirred to revolt. Unfortunately, he did not release her hand, but led her to the historic divan--part of the suite for which Mr. Goodchild had paid eighteen thousand five hundred dollars in the Sunday supplement. Marie Antoinette had been seated in that very place when de Rohan brought the famous diamond necklace to show her. (Same issue; third column, fourth page.) "I think that for sheer, unadulterated impudence--" she began, without any anger, because she was too busy trying to decide what she must do to him to put an end to a situation that had become intolerable--at least in its present shape. "Grace, don't talk nonsense. Just let me look at you." He held her at arm's-length and looked into her eyes. He saw that they were blue and clear and steady and looked fearlessly at him--the stare of a child who doesn't know why she should be afraid. If they don't watch out that fearlessness becomes anything but childish in New York. He continued to stare steadily, unblinkingly, into them. "I can't stand it! I can't stand it!" he said, hoarsely, and blinked his eyes. Then he closed them--tight. Coward! She had felt his keen eyes bore through her garments, through her flesh, into her very soul of souls--a look that frightened until it warmed; and after it warmed, it again frightened--in another way. She saw a wonderfully well-shaped head and very clean-looking hair and a very healthy-looking, clear-cut face and very strong shoulders and very masterful hands. And from all of him came waves that thrilled--the mysterious effluvia that compels and dominates the woman to whom Life means this life. At length he spoke with an effort. "We shall be married in Grace Chapel." He grew calmer, and added, "People will think it was named for you!" "I am not going to marry you," she declared, vehemently. "No. I am going to marry you. After you are my wife we naturally will talk about it. That will enable us to learn whether we shall stay married or not. Grace," he said, earnestly, "I'll do anything you wish." "Leave this house, then." "It's _your_ house, dear," he reminded her, gently, "and I am your guest. That puts it out of your power to enforce your desire. Don't you see?" She tacitly admitted that there was an etiquette of hospitality by asking, coldly, "Why should I marry you?" "I can't give you as many reasons as I might if you asked why I should marry you. The principal two are that I love you and that I am the only man whom Grace Goodchild can marry and still remain Grace Goodchild."