“Small boy, note this handwriting! You will perceive that it is more of a jumping than a running hand--well, it belongs on the top of all mail. Understand?” “I’m on,” said Terence with his broadest grin. “Return to New York,” quoted King, self communing; “I should have known from the way she crossed the street she belonged in New York.” “Sir?” “On your way, Terence; on your way!” but this with a smile. CHAPTER III Lent was well under way and the first Easter displays in show windows when on a Saturday morning, King found a little note perched on the top of his office mail, which read: “If you will be at the old Delmonico corner near Union Square Saturday at 4 P. M., you may walk with me as far as Twenty-third Street, on condition that you turn back there, and in the meantime ask me no questions. Don’t come if the conditions don’t suit.” Whence she came, he never knew, but as he stood waiting, she appeared before him, her face radiant, her gentian eyes smiling up to his. He lifted his hat quickly and fell into step with her along the east side of Broadway. Now that the supreme moment had arrived, he raged inwardly that a species of dumbness should have seized upon him. Turning her head away, the girl laughed softly. She had no fears. The subtle instinct of her sex had informed her that it was not a contest between man and girl, but between woman and boy. The discovery pleased her. And then, smiling, she challenged him: “Well, sir, what have you to say for yourself?” King rallied: “This; you are to marry me, of course. That was arranged in the beginning of all things. The important thing now is to get acquainted.” Again the low, sweet laugh and upturned face: “Sounds like the verdict of a fortune teller. One of your old South Atlantic voodoos been earning a dollar?” He was amazed. It was not to be the last time this girl was to amaze him. She was an amazing girl. “Why place me at the South Atlantic?” “Oh my! Innocent! Doesn’t everybody know Charleston and Savannah brogue when they hear it?” “Close. But it was a little further down. Are we so distinct, though?” “Nobody can imitate it. I’ve tried. The fraud was apparent. My poor voice sticks. I can’t change it.” “God forbid! But--getting back to the wedding--I am in earnest.” “And you don’t know even my name!” “I have name enough for two.” “Nor who I am.” “I know who you will be. That’s enough.” “Nor if I am--nice.” “Don’t jest.” “Nor my profession. I may be an artist’s model, soubrette, chorus lady, paid companion, waitress, manicurist, or lady’s maid.” She glanced down at her very homely dress. “I don’t care what your profession has been. I can look into your face and see that it has been honorable. It’s going to be Mrs. King Dubignon. Look up! I love you, can’t you see it?” Her eyes, swimming in light and laughter, met his. “You absurd boy! Do you always make love this way? Is it the custom--‘a little further down’ than Charleston and Savannah?”