"No interest!" said Mr. Goodchild in a voice that really meant "No Grace!" H. R. turned to his sweetheart and, desiring to forestall desertion, took her hand in his and said to her: "Grace, this house is a very nice house. You have spent many happy hours here. But it is, after all, only a house. And New York is _New York_!" And Philadelphia was _Philadelphia_! Grace's hand remained in H. R.'s. "You can't have her!" said Mr. Goodchild, furiously. "Who can't have whom?" asked Mrs. Goodchild, entering the room. H. R. released Grace's hand, approached Mrs. Goodchild, and, before she knew what he was going to do, threw his right arm about her and kissed her--a loud filial smack. She quickly and instinctively put one hand up to her hair, for the strange young man had been a trifle effusive. But before she could transform her surprise into vocal sounds the stranger spoke, in a voice ringing with affectionate sincerity not too playful, you understand, but convincing, nevertheless: "She inherits her good looks, her disposition, and her taste in dress from you. I saw it the first time I met you. Don't you remember? And I warn you now that if I can't marry Grace I'll kill that husband of yours and marry _you_!" To prove it, he kissed her again, twice. "How dare--" shouted Mr. Goodchild. "I am not sure," said H. R. to Mrs. Goodchild, "that I want Grace now. Between thirty-two and forty a woman is at her best." He patted her shoulder, as we paternally do with the young ones, and went back to Grace. It all had happened so quickly that only H. R. was calm. "My dear!" said Mrs. Goodchild, looking helplessly at Grace. "What is it, mother?" said H. R., appropriating the affectionate words. And as she did not answer he asked, generally. "What do you say to the eighth?" "An eighth?" echoed Mr. Goodchild, almost amiably, thinking, of one-eighth of one per cent. "Of June!" said H. R. "That gives you ample time for everything, Grace. And, remember, give the reporters the detailed list of the trousseau." "There isn't going to be any marriage. And there isn't going to be any nauseating newspaper articles with pictures of intimate lingerie enough to make a decent man blush." "A really decent man always blushes with shame when he does not give _carte blanche_ to his only daughter," said H. R. with great dignity. "Mr.--er--Rogers," said Mrs. Goodchild. "Rutgers," corrected her prospective son-in-law. "The 'g' is hard. It's Dutch, like Roosevelt, Van Rensselaer, and Cruger." "But we don't know anything about your family," she said, very seriously. "Do you know," asked H. R., pleasantly, "the Wittelbachs?" "It's beer, isn't it?" she said. It might be the best brewing blood in Christendom, but still it wasn't Wall Street or real estate. "Good shot!" exclaimed H. R., admiringly. "It is the patronymic of the reigning house of Bavaria. You know, Munich, where beer is the thing. And do you know the Bernadottes?"