“Yes,” said Clifford, turning red.
“Do you love her,—not as you dangle and tiptoe after every pretty inanity—I mean, do you honestly love her?”
“Yes,” said the other doggedly, I would———”
“Hold on a moment; would you marry her?”
Clifford turned scarlet. “Yes,” he muttered.
“Pleasant news for your family,” growled Elliott in suppressed fury. ‘Dear father, I have just married a charming grisette whom I’m sure you'll welcome with open arms, in company with her mother, a most estimable and cleanly washlady.’ Good heavens! This seems to have gone a little further than the rest. Thank your stars, young man, that my head is level enough for us both. Still, in this case, I have no fear. Rue Barrée sat on your aspirations in a manner unmistakably final.”
“Rue Barrée,” began Clifford, drawing himself up, but he suddenly ceased, for there where the dappled sunlight glowed in spots of gold, along the sun-flecked path, tripped Rue Barrée. Her gown was spotless, and her big straw hat, tipped a little from the white forehead, threw a shadow across her eyes.
Elliott stood up and bowed. Clifford removed his head covering with an air so plaintive, so appealing, so utterly humble that Rue Barrée smiled.
The smile was delicious, and when Clifford, incapable of sustaining himself on his legs from sheer astonishment, toppled slightly, she smiled again in spite of herself. A few moments later she took a chair on the terrace and drawing a book from her music roll,
