“_Jane_—and you the girl I counted on as so reliable! My Irene is steady by contrast. You pretend to go visiting friends and only let us know your whereabouts when you get arrested. One night in a police station-house and the next—I presume—at least, I _hope_, for all our sakes, that you thought to marry this—this young man before bringing him here.” “Marry, mother—that _brute_?” Irene slithered from her seat on the arm of the chair recently vacated by the handsome real-estater. Throwing herself upon her cousin’s neck with a freshet of real tears, she wailed: “Oh, my poor dar-rling—our _poor_ old Janie! No matter what your mistakes, you are more to be pitied than punished. Don’t lay your neck on the altar of matrimony for this outlaw. I am sure there’s a good man and true somewhere in the world for you, even though he does seem a long time showing up. Don’t be overcome by this Wild West stuff. _I_ know full well that he has his fatal fascinations. _I_ was once but a bird held in his snake-like spell, until my Harfy saved me from the high seas of his tyranny and the burning blast of his——” “Enough, Rene. Loose me. You’ll drown me with brine if you don’t smother me first,” begged the object of her anxiety. The more Jane struggled, however, the tighter did the bob-haired cousin cling. “But, you poor thing, I know he’ll turn on you one day and beat you up! You saw how he treated my Harfy—a man and his superior in every way—how he rained blow after blow on his priceless pate. What _wouldn’t_ he do to a weak woman in his power? Don’t you go and get desperate just because—Luck in love always seems to run my way, don’t you think so—or do you? Harfy was so nice-nice when he was coming to and so suppressed. I _dote_ on suppression. Do you—or don’t you? He just gazed at me with all his _soul_ when I asked the question I knew he was too used up to ask me. And we’re going to have the biggest church wedding of any girl in my set, with all the trimmings, just as soon as mother can manage it. Aren’t we, dar-rling?” “It seems—that we are.” In the admission, her challenged fiancé looked neither into the black eyes of his perquisitory young lady of to-day nor the blue ones of her upon whom he had pressed his heart and hand on every available occasion in their near past. His expression was that of one who acknowledges himself vanquished—and by a victor fairer than the fight. “Since, madame, you approve and even urge my suit for your niece’s hand”—and Pape frowned deeply before the disdainful matron—“I’ll go one better than Harfy by admitting without being told to that I have assented. Although we aren’t married yet-yet, Irene, we’re going to be right soon-soon. That was as unalterable from the first as the laws of gravity—or of levity. By way of trimmings, we have a score or two to settle first with three of you folks, which is why we came.” “Ah!”