holding into his mother's. "This is my girl, Mother," he said. They
smiled at each other. Mathilde tried to say something. Mrs. Wayne stooped
and kissed her. Mr. Lanley was obviously affected. Adelaide wasn't going
to have any scene like that.

"Late?" she said, as if not an instant had passed since Mrs. Wayne's
entrance. "Oh, no, you're not late; exactly on time, I think. I'm only
just down myself. Isn't that true, Vincent?"

Vincent was studying Mrs. Wayne, and withdrew his eyes slowly. But
Adelaide's object was accomplished: no public betrothal had taken place.

Pringle announced dinner. Mr. Lanley, rather to his own surprise, found
that he was insisting on giving Mrs. Wayne his arm; he was not so angry
at her as he had supposed. He did not think her offensive or unfeminine
or half baked or socialistic or any of the things he had been saying to
himself at lengthening intervals for the last twenty-four hours.

Pete saw an opportunity, and tucked Mathilde's hand within his own arm,
nipping it closely to his heart.

The very instant they were at table Adelaide looked down the alley
between the candles, for the low, golden dish of hot-house fruit did not
obstruct her view of Vincent, and said:

"Why have you never told me about Marty Burke?"

"Who's he?" asked Mr. Lanley, quickly, for he had been trying to start a
little conversational hare of his own, just to keep the conversation away
from the water-front.