“Never!” he vowed with lover-like ardor. “And, dearest, within a few years, by the terms of my grandfather’s will, I shall inherit eight thousand a year.” “What!” Her surprise was genuine; Joe had never before spoken of his prospective inheritance. “I didn’t know about it myself until Christmas,” went on Joe. “We can be married tomorrow if you say so; I’ll get mother to advance me some money, and father will come across when he once meets you.” “And your sister?” “Oh, Pauline can go hang. Who cares for her opinion?” contemptuously. “I do, for one,” calmly meeting his perplexed stare. “I most earnestly desire her friendship.” “You don’t know Pauline,” dryly, remembering his treatment at his sister’s hands. “I don’t think she will add to our joy of living.” “Perhaps not, but she may be useful to me,” quietly. “Oh, Joe, you don’t know what it means to a bride to sever her husband from his family. Please God, you’ll never have that to reproach me with.” “I was only thinking of you, dearest,” put in Joe, much touched. “Between you and me, Pauline is an awful tartar.” At that moment their carriage turned the corner into S Street and drew up at the curb. “Your answer, dearest?” Joe’s assurance had departed, and the hand he laid on Kathryn shook. “Will you marry me?” “Yes,” he had to bend down to catch the whispered word. “Soon?” he urged, his voice triumphant with joy. “Yes,” and the kindly darkness hid the kiss with which they sealed their betrothal. CHAPTER XV IN SHEEP’S CLOTHING KATHRYN ALLEN tore open the note with impatient fingers. MY DARLING, [she read], Pauline tells me Janet Fordyce and Chichester Barnard frequently take tea at the Brown Tea Pot. I don’t know why you asked me to find out, but, sweetheart, your word is law to your devoted JOE. P. S. How the hours drag! I only live when with you. Joe might have spared himself the postscript. Kathryn did not even trouble to read it. Crumpling the note into a small ball she tossed it into the scrap basket and rising, consulted her alarm clock. The hands on the dial pointed to a quarter past three; she could go over to the hospital and register and still have ample time to enjoy a cup of tea at the Brown Tea Pot. Her valise was already packed preparatory to leaving her present case whenever her employer, a hypochondriac, decided she could dispense with her services. She had gone to her immediately after the death of Mrs. Lawrence, but the place did not suit. She did not care to nurse crotchety patients.