"No, we couldn't go shopping together in New York without being liable to run into a wondering crowd of friends, of course--not in the places where you would want to go. But here you are only a couple of hours from Boston; you will be here all summer; you and Mrs. Dingley and I could run into Boston for a day at a time without anybody's being the wiser. I know--that is--I'm confident Mrs. Dingley would do it for me----" "Oh, of course. Did Auntie ever deny you anything since the days when she used to give you jam as often as you came across to play with me?" "Never." "Have you _her_ photograph?" inquired Miss Marcy with an emphasis which left no possible doubt as to whose photograph she meant. "I expected that," said Anthony gravely. "I expected it even sooner. But I am prepared." She sat watching him curiously as he slowly drew from his breast-pocket a tiny leather case, and gazed at it precisely as a lover might be expected to gaze at his lady's image before jealously surrendering it into other hands. She had never seen Anthony Robeson look at any photograph except her own with just that expression. She had often wondered if he ever would. She had recommended this course of procedure to him many times, usually after once more gently refusing to marry him. She had begun at last to doubt whether it would ever be possible to divert Tony's mind from its long-sought object. But that trip to San Francisco, and the months he had spent there in the interests of the firm he served, had evidently brought about the desired change. She had not seen him since his return until to-day, when he had run up into the country where was the Marcy summer home, to tell her, as she now understood, his news and to make his somewhat extraordinary request. She accepted the photograph with a smile, and studied it with attention. "Oh, but isn't she pretty?" she cried warmly--and generously, for she was thinking as she looked how much prettier was Miss Langham than Miss Marcy. "Isn't she?" agreed Anthony with enthusiasm. "Lovely. What eyes! And what a dear mouth!" "You're right." "She looks clever, too." "She is." "How tall is she?" "About up to my shoulder." "She's little, then." "Well, I don't know," objected Anthony, surveying his own stalwart length of limb. "A girl doesn't have to be a dwarf not to be on a level with me. I should say she must be somewhere near your height." "What a magnificent dresser!" "Is she? She never irritates one with the fact." "Oh, but I can see. And she's going to marry you. Tony, what can you give her?" "A little box of a house, one maidservant, an occasional trip into town, four new frocks a year--moderate ones, you know, in keeping with her circumstances--and my name," replied Anthony composedly. "You won't let her live in town, then?"