"For heaven's sake," he began, then got frightfully red in the face once more. "What that girl needs is a plain spanking!" he said bluntly. "I'd like to see her or any other girl try to come into this family on any such ridiculous terms!"

"She doesn't seem to want to come in on any terms," said Helen.

"Then what are you worrying about?"

"I am worrying about what might happen if she ever changed her mind."

"But you say she doesn't believe in marriage!"

"She doesn't."

"Well, that boy of ours isn't crazy," insisted Shotwell Senior.

But his mother remained silent in her deep misgiving concerning the sanity of the simpler s.e.x, when mentally upset by love. For it seemed very difficult to understand what to do--if, indeed, there was anything for her to do in the matter.

To express disapproval of Palla to Jim or to the girl herself--to show any opposition at all--would, she feared, merely defeat its own purpose and alienate her son's confidence.

The situation was certainly a most disturbing one, though not at present perilous.

And Helen would not permit herself to believe that it could ever really become an impossible situation--that this young girl would deliberately slap civilisation in the face; or that her only son would add a kick to the silly a.s.sault and take the ruinous consequences of social ostracism.

The young girl in question was at that moment seated before her piano, her charming head uplifted, singing in the silvery voice of an immaculate angel, to her own accompaniment, the heavenly Ma.s.s of Saint Hilde:

"Love me, Adorable Mother!

Mary, I worship no other.

Save me, O, graciously save me I pray!

Let my Darkness be turned into Day By the Light of Thy Grace And Thy Face, I pray!"

She continued the exquisite refrain on the keys for a while, then slowly turned to the man beside her.

"The one Ma.s.s I still love," she murmured absently, "--memories of childhood, I suppose--when the Sisters made me sing the solo--I was only ten years old." ... She shrugged her shoulders: "You know, in those days, I was a little devil," she said seriously.

He smiled.

"I really was, Jim,--all over everything and wild as a swallow. I led the pack; Shadow Hill held us in horror. I remember I fought our butcher's boy once--right in the middle of the street----"

"Why?"

"He did something to a cat which I couldn't stand."

"Did you whip him?"

"Oh, Jim, it was horrid. We both were dreadfully battered. And the constable caught us both, and I shall never, never forget my mother's face!----"

She gazed down at the keys of the piano, touched them pensively.

"The very deuce was in me," she sighed. "Even now, unless I'm occupied with all my might, something begins--to simmer in me----"

She turned and looked at him: "--A sort of enchanted madness that makes me wild to seize the whole world and set it right!--take it into my arms and defend it--die for it--or slay it and end its pain."

"Too much of an armful," he said with great gravity. "The thing to do is to select an individual and take _him_ to your heart."

"And slay him?" she inquired gaily.

"Certainly--like the feminine mantis--if you find you don't like him.

Individual suitors must take their chances of being either eaten or adored."

"Jim, you're so funny."

She swung her stool, rested her elbow on the piano, and gazed at him interrogatively, the odd, half-smile edging her lips and eyes. And, after a little _duetto_ of silence:

"Do you suppose I shall ever come to care for you--imprudently?" she asked.

"I wouldn't let you."

"How could you help it? And, as far as that goes, how could I, if it happened?"

"If you ever come to care at all," he said, "you'll care enough."

"That is the trouble with you," she retorted, "you don't care enough."

A slight flush stained his cheek-bones: "Sometimes," he said, "I almost wish I cared less. And that would be what you call enough."

Colour came into her face, too:

"Do you know, Jim, I really don't know how much I do care for you? It sounds rather silly, doesn't it?"

"Do you care more than you did at first?"

"Yes."

"Much more?"

"I told you I don't know how much."

"Not enough to marry me?"

"Must we discuss that again?"

He got up, went out to the hall, pulled a book from his overcoat pocket, and returned.

"Would you care to hear what the greatest American says on the subject, Palla?"

"On the subject of marriage?"

"No; he takes the marriage for granted. It's what he has to say concerning the obligations involved."