“I tell you this is serious!” interrupted the other tempestuously. “It’s desperate!” “I’m very —— busy,” evasively suggested the new political power. “If you’re too —— busy to help an old friend who needs you,” stormed Mr. Copewell, “you can eternally go to ——” “Hold on! Hold on!” placated the other before Mr. Copewell had enjoyed the opportunity of designating the locality to which Mr. Burrow had his permission to go. “I merely meant to point out that when you want something done, it is well to go to a busy man. The other kind never have time.” CHAPTER II THE PLOT OF AN ELOPEMENT Mr. Copewell crossed and stood tensely before Mr. Burrow. When he spoke it was with the hushed voice of a man who divulges an unthinkable conspiracy: “They are going to send her to Europe!” “You don’t tell me?” observed Mr. Burrow pleasantly. “Well, what’s the matter with Europe?” Mr. Copewell looked as much astonished as though he had been suddenly called on for proof that Purgatory is not pleasant in August. His voice almost broke. “They are sending her—so that she may forget me!” “You can send a girl to Europe,” reassured his friend, “but you can’t make her—sane.” “They don’t have to make her sane—she is perfectly sane now!” retorted Lewis with commendable heat. “Then why,” inquired the lawyer logically, “should it be necessary to send her to Europe?” “It’s not necessary. It’s hideous!” Emotion strangled Mr. Copewell. “They are packing her off—because she loves _me_!” “Oh!” Mr. Burrow’s voice was apologetic. “I thought you said she was sane.” Mr. Copewell’s reply may be omitted. In fact the Editor insists upon its being omitted. The following is an inadequate indication of its tenor: “——!——!!——!!!——!!!!——!!!!!” “Going to send her to Europe,” mused Mr. Burrow as though he had not heard. Then he inquiringly raised his brows and added, “Who?” “Who? What?” repeated Mr. Copewell, bewildered. “Who are they going to send to Europe?” “You are insufferable! That’s precisely what I’ve been telling you—the One Girl—Mary, of course—Mary Asheton.” The Honorable Alexander Hamilton spoke soothingly: “You just said the only lady in the world. You didn’t say which only one. Statistics show that in America alone there are perhaps twenty millions.” “Mary!” breathed Mr. Copewell with fervor. “‘Mary is a grand old name,’” recitatively acknowledged Mr. Burrow. “Who objects to this match between you and this young person, Mary?” “Her family—fathers, mothers, uncles, aunts—everybody like that.” “Then I gather from your somewhat disjointed statement,” Mr. Burrow summarized with concise, court-room clarity, “that the situation is this: It is _practically_ a unanimous verdict that the marriage is undesirable, ill-advised and impossible.” “On the contrary, both Mary and I know——”