make a light."

She asked nothing better. She was oppressed with a sense of crisis. An
inner voice seemed to be saying, in parody of Charles Francis Adams's
historic words: "I need hardly point out to your ladyship that this means
marriage."

She had thought, lightly enough, that everything was settled the evening
before on the stairs when she had made up her mind that he would do. But
with all her belief in herself, she was not unaware even then that
unforeseen obstacles might arise. He might be secretly engaged for all
she knew to the contrary. But now she felt quite sure of him. With Fate
playing into her hands like this--with romance and adventure and the
possibilities of an uninterrupted tête-à-tête, she knew she could have
him if she wanted him. And the point was that she did. At least she
supposed she did. She felt as many a young man feels when he lands his
first job--triumphant, but conscious of lost freedoms.

Marriage, she knew, was the only possible solution of her problems. Her
life with her father was barely possible. As a matter of fact they were
but rarely together. The tiny apartment in New York did not attract
Fred Fenimer as a winter residence, when he had an opportunity of going
to Aiken or Florida or California at the expense of some more fortunate
friend. In summer it was much the same. "My dear," he would say to his
daughter, "I really can't afford to open the house this summer." And
Christine would coldly acquiesce, knowing that this statement only
meant that he had received an invitation that he preferred to a quiet
summer with her.

Sometimes throughout the whole season father and daughter would only