"Let her rage. Nothing can separate us now."

Thus they dismissed Mrs. Newbolt, and the shock she was probably
experiencing at that very moment, while reading Eleanor's letter
announcing that, at thirty-nine, she was going to marry this very young
man.

"No; nothing can part us," Eleanor said; "forever and ever." And again
they were silent--islanded in rippling tides of wind-blown grass, with
the warm fragrance of dropping locust blossoms infolding them, and in
their ears the endless murmur of the river. Then Eleanor said, suddenly:
"Maurice!--Mr. Houghton? What will _he_ do when he hears? He'll think an
'elopement' is dreadful."

He chuckled. "Uncle Henry?--He isn't really my uncle, but I call him
that;--he won't rage. He'll just whistle. People of his age have to
whistle, to show they're alive. I have reason to believe," the cub said,
"that he 'whistled' when I flunked in my mid-years. Well, I felt sorry,
myself--on his account," Maurice said, with the serious and amiable
condescension of youth. "I hated to jar him. But--gosh! I'd have flunked
A B C's, for _this_. Nelly, I tell you heaven hasn't got anything on
this! As for Uncle Henry, I'll write him to-morrow that I had to get
married sort of in a hurry, because Mrs. Newbolt wanted to haul you off
to Europe. He'll understand. He's white. And he won't really mind--after
the first biff;--that will take him below the belt, I suppose, poor old
Uncle Henry! But after that, he'll adore you. He adores beauty."

Her delight in his praise made her almost beautiful; but she protested
that he was a goose. Then she took the little grass ring from her finger