For an hour and a half we walked briskly and talked along lines
usually self-revealing; and by the time the hotel was again reached I
was quite satisfied concerning a complicated situation that needed
skilful steering to avoid a dangerous and disastrous smash-up.

"Can't I go home with you, Miss Dandridge?" Tom twisted his hat
nervously. "It's too late for you to go so far by yourself. Please
let me go with you."

"Of course you're going with me. After dark I'm only a baby person
and I like a nice, big man with me! Good-by, dear." I turned to
Madeleine. "Some afternoon, if your mother does not mind, come down
and have tea with me in Scarborough Square. Tom can come, too, and
bring you home. I'll telephone you one day next week."

With a nod I walked away, but not before I saw a flash of joy pass
between two faces which were raised to each other, and, guiltily, I
wondered if I had again done something I shouldn't. I was always
doing it. Hurrying on with Tom, I talked of many things, but at my
door I turned to him and held out my hand.

"I haven't any right to ask you, but I'm going to ask you. You care
for each other and something is the matter. What is it, Tom?"

"Matter!" Indignation, wrathful and righteous, flared in face and
voice, and Tom's clutch of my hand was more fervid than considerate.
"Her mother's the matter. She's batty on the subject of society and
position, and first families, and fashion, and rot of that sort--all
right in its way, but not her way. I'm not aristocratic enough for
her. She doesn't want her daughter to marry me because we haven't