"But I _will_ marry you—and _now_!" she cried. The girl’s romantic spirit was aroused and her spontaneous, unsophisticated feminine ideal of love was in the ascendant. "I will _prove_ my love and faith. I will marry you now, and you may claim me when you have won your laurels. Let the Senate refuse you a commission if they dare!" "And would you be willing to trust me to keep that secret?" Hayward asked. "I almost would be afraid to trust myself—I would want to yell it from the housetops! Married to you and not tell it! Why, it would just tell itself to any open-eyed man who looked at me." "No, no," Helen answered. "I’m willing to trust you. It’s a hardship that cannot be avoided, and we must make the best of it." * * * * * "And now," Helen had given her husband a last laughing admonition, "since we must be clandestine against our wills, let’s be romantic to the last most fiercely orthodox degree. No love-lit glances or conscious looks. You be a perfect footman with that indifferent and superior and high-and-mighty air while you can, for when your bondage actually begins you will never swagger again; and I will be so haughty as almost to spurn your very presence. We must make no foolish attempts at conversation, and when we write must deliver our letters personally into the hand, not trusting even the mails with our secret. And then, when you become an officer we will give the dear people the surprise of their lives. My! won’t it be fun to see them! And it may be that when the time comes we will not tell them that we are already married, but will have another ceremony, a brilliant army affair such as I have set my heart on. Wouldn’t that be gorgeous!" "I hardly would have acquaintances enough among the officers to provide my share of the attendants," Hayward answered. "Oh, yes, you would. You would make then fast enough," the girl replied. "An American army officer has the entrée everywhere—I’ve heard papa say so a score of times—and, besides, Mr. Humility, I suppose that my friends among the officers would be numerous enough to fill all vacancies." Hayward saw clearly wherein his wife’s forecasts were faulty; but it profited nothing to take issue with her enthusiasms and he gladly joined in them. She was his wife—that could not be changed; and he felt that with that a fact accomplished he reasonably might work for, and hope for, and expect, anything. He returned to his work in the city, therefore, overflowing with happiness and pride. It was not surprising that as a White House footman he was more than ever the subject of notice and comment, for never one carried a perfect physique with such an air. If his confident swing and tread had been the expression of personal vanity, it had been insufferable; but love is not insolent nor its struttings offensive.