Tina gave a movement of impatience, though she lay close cuddled in her mother’s arms. “I think it would have been a great deal better if we had eloped—Francis and I,” she murmured. “Tina!” The mother gave a horrified gasp. “Well, I do think so—it would have saved everything, all the feeling so badly, and the talk, and everything. Francis and I wanted to go off in the automobile this afternoon and get married then, and settle it all at once. People never seem to mind a bit after it’s all over—the Boggses made such a fuss about Lucy’s marrying that widower and now nobody says a word about it. She comes to Sunday-night’s tea with _his_ children.” “But you didn’t elope, my darling,” said Mrs. Malison, searching for the one crumb of comfort. “Francis thought you might mind.” “That was _very_ right of Francis.” “And he was afraid the car would break down; he had to take it to the garage for repairs.” “Oh, dear!” sighed the poor mother once more. It was only after Tina seemed to be asleep that she stole down-stairs again to drop into an uneasy slumber herself. This battle was going to be a long and weary fray. They were all down unusually early to breakfast but Tina. “Don’t waken Miss Tina,” Mrs. Malison warned the maid. “Sure she’s not in the house, ma’am.” Emma’s tone was glibly important. “Bridget said as how Miss Tina slipped out at six o’clock this morning; she came down the stairs a tiptoe in her new grey shuit. ’Twas towards the trolley car she wint.” It had happened then already—the blow had fallen! The headstrong child had gone. Mrs. Malison whispered the words with lips that could hardly frame the words. Other people’s daughters had deceived them and done this thing—she had felt shamed for them—but hers! The room went around with her, some one was bringing her water. She saw the scared faces of Annette and Elinor bending over her—the moments seemed like dreary years as they passed. The square, marble-pillared clock, in its old-fashioned glass case on the mantel, chimed eight musically as Tina came into the room. Her blue hat with its white feathers was pushed sideways on her rumpled hair, and the new grey suit was wrinkled and spotted with clay from an enormous pot of daisies hugged tightly in her arms. She set it down hastily on the white cloth of the breakfast table, and leaned back, panting, against the mahogany sideboard laden with its tall old silver; the light from the parting of the heavy curtains leaped towards her, and held her in its shining embrace. “I didn’t know that was going to be so heavy. The trolleys were _so_ slow, they wouldn’t connect. I went to get the flowers for you, momsey, because you’re so fond of them.” Her eyes took swift tally of the group, unheeding of their exclamations. “Please leave the room, Emma——” she went on speaking with a defiant hardness, broken now and then by an odd, piteous little catch in her young voice: