marriage. See? My lord's nephew goes off to persuade my lord, and returns with my lord's answer in an envelope sealed with the great seal. I open it and I read— this is what I read: 'To Mr. S. Rainshore, American draper. Sir— As a humorist you rank high. Accept the admiration of Your obedient servant, Lowry.' "
The millionaire laughed. "Oh! It's clever enough!" said Rainshore. "It's very English and grand. Dashed if I don't admire it! All the same, I've requested Mr. Vaux-Lowry, under the circumstances, to quit this town. I didn't show him the letter— no. I spared his delicate feelings. I merely told him Lord Lowry had refused, and that I would be ready to consider his application favourably any time when he happened to have half a million dollars in his pocket."
"And Miss Geraldine?"
"She's flying the red flag, but she knows when my back's against the wall. She knows her father. She'll recover. Great Scott! She's eighteen, he's twenty-one; the whole affair is a high farce. And, moreover, I guess I want Geraldine to marry an American, after all."
"And if she elopes?" Cecil murmured as if to himself, gazing at the set features of the girl, who was now alone once more.
"Elopes!"
Rainshore's face reddened as his mood shifted suddenly from indulgent cynicism to profound anger. Cecil was amazed at the transformation, until he remembered to have heard long ago that Simeon himself had eloped.
"It was just a fancy that flashed into my mind," Cecil smiled diplomatically.
"I should let it flash out again if I were you," said Rainshore, with a certain grimness. And Cecil perceived the truth of the maxim that a parent can never forgive his own fault in his child.
II.
"You've come to sympathise with me," said Geraldine Rainshore calmly, as Cecil, leaving the father for a few moments, strolled across the terrace towards the daughter.
"It's my honest, kindly face that gives me away," he responded lightly. "But what am I to sympathise with you about?"
"You know what," the girl said briefly.
They stood together near the balustrade, looking out over the sea into the crimson eye of the sun; and all the afternoon activities of Ostend were surging round them— the muffled sound of musical instruments from within the Kursaal, the shrill cries of late bathers from the shore, the toot of a tramway-horn to the left, the roar of a siren to the right, and everywhere the ceaseless hum of an existence at once gay, feverish, and futile; but Cecil was conscious of nothing but the individuality by his side. Some women, he reflected, are older at eighteen than they are at thirty-eight, and Geraldine was one of those. She happened to be very young and very old at the same time. She might be immature, crude, even gawky in her girlishness; but she was just then in the first flush of mentally realising the absolute independence of the human spirit. She had force, and she had also the enterprise to act on it.
As Cecil glanced at her intelligent, expressive face, he thought of her playing with life as a child plays with a razor.
"You mean—?" he inquired.
"I mean that father has been talking about me to you. I could tell by his eyes. Well?"
"Your directness unnerves me," he smiled. "Pull yourself together, then, Mr. Thorold. Be a man."
"Will you let me treat you as a friend?"
"Why, yes," she said, "if you'll promise not to tell me I'm only eighteen."
"I am incapable of such rudeness," Cecil replied. "A woman is as old as she feels. You feel at least thirty; therefore you are at least thirty. This being understood, I am going to suggest, as a friend, that if you and Mr. Vaux-Lowry are— perhaps pardonably— contemplating any extreme step?"
"Extreme step, Mr. Thorold?"
"Anything rash."
"And suppose we are?" Geraldine demanded, raising her chin scornfully and defiantly and dangling her parasol.
"I should respectfully and confidentially advise you to refrain. Be content to wait, my dear middle-aged woman. Your father may relent. And also, I have a notion that I may be able to—to―"
"Help us?"
"Possibly."
"You are real good," said Geraldine coldly. "But what gave you the idea that Harry and I were meaning to??"
" Something in your eyes— your fine, daring eyes. I read you as you read your father, you see?"
"Well, then, Mr. Thorold, there's something wrong with my fine, daring eyes. I'm just the last girl in all America to do anything— rash. Why! if I did anything rash, I'm sure I should feel ever afterwards as if I wanted to be excused off the very face of the earth. I'm that sort of girl. Do you think I don't know that father will give way? I guess he's just got to. With time and hammering, you can knock sense into the head of any parent."
"I apologise," said Cecil, both startled and convinced. " And I congratulate Mr. Vaux-Lowry."
"Say. You like Harry, don't you?"
"Very much. He's the ideal type of Englishman."
Geraldine nodded sweetly. " And so obedient! He does everything I tell him. He is leaving for England to-night, not because father asked him to, but because I did. I'm going to take mother to Brussels for a few days' shopping— lace, you know. That will give father an opportunity to meditate in solitude on his own greatness. Tell me, Mr. Thorold, do you consider that Harry and I would be justified in corresponding secretly?"
Cecil assumed a pose of judicial gravity.
"I think you would," he decided. " But don't tell anyone I said so."
"Not even Harry?"
She ran off into the Kursaal, saying she must seek her mother. But instead of seeking her mother, Geraldine passed straight through the concert-hall, where a thousand and one wondrously attired women were doing fancy needle-work to the accompaniment of a band of music, into the maze of corridors beyond, and so to the rear entrance of the Kursaal on the Boulevard van Isoghem. Here she met Mr. Harry Vaux-Lowry, who was most obviously waiting for her. They crossed the road to the empty tramway waiting-room and entered it and sat down; and by the mere act of looking into each other's eyes, these two— the stiff, simple, honest-faced young Englishman with "Oxford" written all over him, and the charming child of a civilisation equally proud, but with fewer conventions, suddenly transformed the little bureau into a Cupid's bower.
"It's just as I thought, you darling boy," Geraldine began to talk rapidly. "Father's the least bit in the world scared; and when he's scared, he's bound to confide in someone; and he's confided in that sweet Mr. Thorold. And Mr. Thorold has been requested to reason with me and advise me to be a good girl and wait. I know what that means. It means that father thinks we shall soon forget each other, my poor Harry. And I do believe it means that father wants me to marry Mr. Thorold."
"What did you say to him, dear?" the lover demanded, pale.
"Trust me to fool him, Harry. I simply walked round him. He thinks we are going to be very good and wait patiently. As if father ever would give way until he was forced!"
She laughed disdainfully. " So we're perfectly safe so long as we act with discretion. Now let's clearly understand. To-day's Monday. You return to England to-night."
"Yes. And I'll arrange about the licence and things."
"Your cousin Mary is just as important as the licence, Harry," said Geraldine primly.
"She will come. You may rely on her being at Ostend with me on Thursday."
"Very well. In the meantime, I behave as if life were a blank. Brussels will put them off the scent. Mother and I will return from there on Thursday afternoon. That night there is a soiree dansante at the Kursaal. Mother will say she is too tired to go to it, but she will have to go all the same. I will dance before