And, on an easel, the sad portrait of a gentleman, undoubtedly the late lamented Norton. His uninteresting nose appeared to turn up at the constant odor of cookery in which it dwelt; his hair was plastered down over his forehead in a gorgeous abandoned curve such as some of the least sophisticated of Mr. John T. McCutcheon's gentlemen affect. Mr. Magee stared round the room and smiled. Was the romance of reality never to resemble the romance of his dreams? Where were the dim lights, where the distant waltz, where the magic of moonlight amid which he was some day to have told a beautiful girl of his love? Hardly in Mrs. Norton's parlor. She came and stood in the doorway. Hatless, coatless, smiling, she flooded the place with her beauty. Mr. Magee looked at the flabby angels on the wall, expecting them to hide their faces in shame. But no, they still rode brazenly their unstable clouds. "Come in," he cried. "Don't leave me alone here again, please. And tell me--is this the gentleman who took the contract for making Mrs. Norton happy?" "I--I can't come in," she said, blushing. She seemed to wish to avoid him. "Yes, that is Mr. Norton." She came nearer the easel, and smiled at the late lamented's tonsorial crown. "I must leave you--just a moment--" Billy Magee's heart beat wildly. His breath came fast. He seized her by the hand. "You're never going to leave me again," he cried. "Don't you know that? I thought you knew. You're mine. I love you. I love you. It's all I can say, my dearest. Look at me--look at me, please." "It has happened so quickly," she murmured. "Things can't be true when they--happen so quickly." "A woman's logic," said Mr. Magee. "It has happened. My beautiful girl. Look at me." And then--she looked. Trembling, flushed, half frightened, half exultant, she lifted her eyes to his. "My little girl!" he cried down at her. A moment longer she held off, and then limply she surrendered. And Billy Magee held her close in his arms. "Take care of me," she whispered. "I--I love you so." Her arm went timidly about his shoulders. "Do you want to know my name? It's Mary--" Mary what? The answer was seemingly of no importance, for Mr. Magee's lips were on hers, crushing the word at its birth. So they stood, amid Mrs. Norton's gloomy objects of art. And presently she asked: "How about the book, dear?" But Mr. Magee had forgot. "What book?" he asked. "The novel you went to Baldpate to write Don't you remember, dearest--no melodrama, no wild chase, no--love?" "Why--" Mr. Magee paused for a moment in the joy of his discovery. Then he came back to the greater joy in his arms. "Why, darling," he explained gently, "this is it." THE END End of Project Gutenberg's Seven Keys to Baldpate, by Earl Derr Biggers