"Ted," said Mr. Claybourne, leading his wife to an easy chair, "I don't believe you are a very popular young man with part of the family--Lucy, I want you to shake hands with your future son-in-law."

I timidly advanced, an action which brought about a relapse. When she was a girl, daughters had the common decency to confide in their mothers; they didn't announce engagements to practically total strangers; they didn't get half-killed riding horseback with Tom, d.i.c.k, and Harry; they showed some consideration--some sense of the fitness of things; they went regularly to Church and were obedient. At this point Mr. Claybourne admitted a damaging piece of evidence.

"We ran away to be married, Lucy, when you were seventeen and we had just one hundred and twenty-seven dollars between us. What's more, I've never regretted it," he finished, with unexpected tenderness in his voice.

"Mother!" Helen pleaded, and she stretched out her arms. Mrs. Claybourne staggered across the room and melodramatically hurled herself upon her daughter. At the end of another outpouring of sobs and tears, she consented reluctantly to shake hands, and submitted to a formal kiss from me, at Helen's command. I am afraid I did not linger very long over it. With a few more remarks about no one having any regard for her wishes, or taking into consideration her nervous state, she began to cheer up remarkably.

Upon noting these favorable symptoms, Mr. Claybourne announced that he was off for the club, at the same time inviting me to stay and "amuse Helen" until after supper.

"I hope, Martin, you are not going to play cards on Sunday--at the least, not for money." Mr. Claybourne showed long practice in the skill with which he evaded a direct reply, and left hurriedly.

"I don't know what we shall do, Helen, when we announce your engagement.

Neither of us have any clothes fit to wear."

I was staggered by this transition to the practical, but at least the implication was that the period of resistance was over.

"We can go to New York before Christmas," Helen said.

"Your father is always complaining I spend too much money," mother sighed, "although he seems to forget, Edward, that I have a grown-up daughter to manage. Of course, now I won't be able to go to Palm Beach for the winter, as I had planned, and this climate is simply killing my nerves. But I don't suppose that ever entered either of your heads."

Helen's eyes danced as we stole a look at one another, but Mrs.

Claybourne continued, unconscious of anything but herself: "There isn't a single dressmaker in this city who can turn out a decent evening dress, and all Helen's clothes will have to be made to order--she can't wear _jeune fille_ things any more. Oh, dear, and I don't suppose I'll have any help planning your trousseau--you and Edward will be off riding horseback day and night--it will all be left for me to settle, and I declare I haven't the health or the strength."

There was no use trying to a.s.sure her that we probably should take some interest in the course of subsequent events. Our engagement settled itself down as a conspiracy to prevent her from going to Palm Beach; moreover, it was a deliberately chosen scheme to add to her cares and responsibilities at a time when her nerves were on the edge of a general breakdown. By some mysterious tactful process Helen persuaded her mother to take another rest, and we were left alone.

I drew my chair up beside her. "Poor Ted," she smiled; "you've had quite a trying day."

"Did I put my foot in it anywhere?" I asked.

She laughed: "Not once, unless you consider an engagement to me, now you know the family, putting your foot in it."

"Why did Ludwig von Oberhausen send you flowers?"

"Ah, I knew you'd ask that at the first opportunity. Why do you suppose he did?" she teased.

"Because you are the most beautiful girl in the world."

"Stuff, Ted, that wasn't the reason; besides, only you could believe that. It was because he thought I had money; I was number three on his list. Oh, he was methodical about it, Ted, beginning with a formal call on mother on her day at home. Every Sat.u.r.day night at six a dozen American beauties arrived, until you galloped over the horizon that day on Satan."

This was comforting. "Did you care for him?"

"No, you jealous pig."

"Helen," I said, with masculine solemnity and inappropriateness, "is this really the first time--for you?"

Afterwards I was thankful she had a sense of humour; in a normal frame of mind I should not have propounded such a ba.n.a.l absurdity. It was excess of good fortune which destroyed my sense of proportion. She flushed slightly for a moment, more because it was a shock to find me so stupid than because the question hurt her.

"Ted, it isn't like us," she said gently, using the phrase that so many times, in the days to come, kept me steady on my feet and my face in the clouds--"it isn't like us to--to doubt each other even in tiny things.

Of course, I've had boy friends who have sat on the beach with me and watched the moon rise or begged me for an extra allowance of dances."

She smiled, and there was a pause, during which I felt humble and guilty. The back of my neck was uncomfortably hot. "I've met only one Ted--my Sir Edward of Overseas," and she laid her hand on mine. There followed a long silence.

"Teddy dear," she said at last. "Tell me more about England."

Until after the room grew dark I told her all I could--of my family; of country life in Hertfordshire, with its packs of hounds, straggly villages, and grey parish churches on the summits of windy hills; of London, with its mystery and romance and its age-old stories. It sounds as if I lectured poor Helen like a school teacher. In reality it was a true lover's conversation--she questioning and curious about her home-to-be, I trying to make her see it through my eyes. I was young and sentimental; I had not then learned that patriotism and love of home are suburban and unintellectual emotions.

Suddenly I cried out: "Good Heavens, dearest, it's half past five, and I forgot I have to go on duty at six! I can't stay to supper--I must run now."

"Won't they let you off this once, if you telephone?"

I hesitated, for the temptation was strong, but it wouldn't be fair to Knowlton. It would mean a twenty-four hour stretch for him if I stayed away, I explained.

"Of course you must go, Ted. Let's try not to be selfish in our happiness--ever." I kissed her and left with these words repeating themselves over and over in my ears.

When I reached the factory I found Knowlton pacing the floor.

"I've been wanting to get you all day, Ted. I didn't like to call you up at the Claybournes', as I knew you'd be here at six. There's the devil to pay."

"What do you mean?"

"Prospero's companion, the circus woman, has gone. All your chemistry notes of our experiments have disappeared too. Prospero is in his room raving drunk. He swears you have tricked him and stolen the secret of his great discovery. He threatens law, murder, anything he can think of."

"That part is all right," I said. "The notes are serious."

"Can you reconstruct them?"

"Not all," I answered "without repeating part of the experiments."

"How long will that take?"

"A minimum of six weeks."

"I was a triple d.a.m.n fool, Ted, not to keep a copy of your work in the office safe. There's the Texas contract which we must begin work on tomorrow. Do you know the formula?"

"No, that was Prospero's discovery--but I know how he went at it."

"Go to the laboratory, Ted, and stick at it as long as you can, night and day. If you can work out that formula, you can have two weeks at Christmas. If you can't, we are done for. The bank is carrying us now on the strength of our Texas contract--if we can't make good on it, you and I have finished with Deep Harbor. Can I telephone for a chemist to help you?"

"Yes--get me a young, trained research man--and see if the Owen people will lend us one of their best laboratory men. Of course, you'll have to pay like the deuce--"

"That doesn't matter--you'll get your man. And, Ted?"

"Yes?"

"I'd rather you wouldn't tell Miss Claybourne about this--her father is a director in the bank--"

"Miss Claybourne does not repeat--" I began.