'Of course, Henry, you know, we _would_ really have to be very patient, and not say anything about it to people until--well, until we _could_, you know....' And then, his trembling arm about her shoulders, his lips reverently brushing her forehead in their first kiss--until now the restraint of youth (which is quite as remarkable as its excesses) had kept them just short of any such sober admission of feeling--her cheek resting lightly against his coat, she said this:-- 'I shouldn't have let myself be disturbed. I don't really care about Thomas and William. But what you said made me seem like that sort of girl. Henry, you--you hurt me a little.' His eyes filled. He stood erect, looking out over the dark mass of her hair, looking down the long vista of the years. He compressed his lips. 'Of course,' he said bravely. 'We don't care about money We've got all our lives. I guess I can work. Prob'ly I'll write better for not having any. You know--it'll spur me. And I'll be working for you.' He heard her whisper:-- 'I'll be so _proud_, Henry.' 'What's money to us!' He seemed at last to be getting hold of this tremendous thought, to be approaching belief. He repeated it, with a ring in his voice: 'What's money to us!' After all what _is_ money to Twenty? X--LOVE LAUGHS 1 |A squat locomotive, bell ringing, dense clouds of black smoke pouring from the flaring smoke-stack, came rumbling and clanking in between the platforms and stopped just beyond the old red brick depot. The crowd of ladies converged swiftly toward the steps of the four dingy yellow cars that made up, traditionally, the one-ten train. These ladies were bound for the shops, the matinées (it was a Wednesday, and October), the lectures and concerts of Chicago. Henry Calverly, 3rd, avoided the press by swinging his slimly athletic person aboard the smoker. He stepped within and for a moment stood sniffing the thick blend of coal gases and poor tobacco, then turned back and made his way against the incoming current of men. Bad air on a train made him car-sick. He stood considering the matter, clinging to a sooty brake wheel, while the train started. Then he plunged at the door of the car next behind, in among an enormous number of dressed-up, chattering ladies. He wondered why they all talked at once; it was like a tea. He was afraid of them. Apparently they filled the car; he couldn't, from the door, see one empty seat. Well, nothing for it but to run the gauntlet. And not without a faintly stirring sense of conspicuousness that was at once pleasing and confusing he started down the aisle, clutching at seat-backs for support. Near the farther end of the car there was one vacant half-seat. A girl occupied the other half. She was leaning forward, talking to the women in front. These latter, on close inspection--he had paused midway--proved to be Mrs B. L. Ames and her daughter, Mary.