It was all unexpected to Hildegarde. She had not reckoned on this. Not that she had never considered Potter as a possible husband. What girl could have taken so important a part in the happenings of a man's life without at least considering that outcome? She liked him, liked him exceedingly, but she had not thought further than that. She had regarded him more in the light of an adventure; of an exciting pal, perhaps.... Now she regarded him from a far different point of view. He was asking her to marry him--to turn her running away from home into an elopement. Some girls might have been carried off their feet by the romance of it, but not so Hildegarde. She was not easily swept from her equilibrium.... She was not calm and cool as she considered; she was excited, vibrant with stirred emotions, yet she could think collectedly. She liked him, she told herself, liked him very well indeed. Perhaps that was love. She doubted it, but then she might be mistaken. At any rate, he would be a bully companion, and he was, she felt, trustworthy; she could marry him with confidence that he would be good to her, gentle with her, chivalrous toward her.... He was rich. That was but a passing thought, but it was present. He was handsome, a husband to exhibit with pride.... And marriage with him would solve her problem. She could depend upon him to hold her safe from her father. He would be a sure refuge in her emergency.... And what other refuge was there? She was penniless. She would be alone in the world.... Unmistakably she liked Potter. "Are you angry?" he asked. "No," she said. "Do you mean-- Will you marry me? To-night?" "Yes," she replied. One arm sufficed to guide the car, while with the other he crushed her to him, panting, protesting, and kissed her averted cheek. "Don't!" she cried. "Don't!" It was a shock to her; it was reality, yet, somehow, she was not affronted, was more startled than displeased. "You love me," he insisted. "Let me hear you say it." "I--don't know," she said. "Everything is so--so confused. Everything is happening--" "Of course," he said, gently. "I'll behave myself.... But you've got to love me," he said, with determination. "We were _meant_ to love each other." They ran up the long driveway and stopped at the carriage-door of Potter's house. He leaped to the step and lifted her out in his arms, and as she felt the strength of them, the promise of protection in them, she was conscious of a pleasant contentment, of something more, perhaps. She looked up into Potter's face and smiled, nor did she avert her head as he pressed his lips to hers. Yes, perhaps this was love. Certainly she was moved, stirred by this young man. If it were not love itself, she thought, somewhat vaguely, it gave promise of opening into love. Mrs. Waite was sitting up for her son as she had promised. When Potter and Hildegarde entered the room she arose, surprised, but repressing her surprise.