Blakely's mother, and the compromising Charybdis of my self-elected
champions. But I managed it, somehow. Dad bought me a stunning big
automobile in Los Angeles, and Blakely taught me how to run it;
then, Blakely was awfully fond of golf; and we spent loads of time
at the Country Club. And of course there was the palace on the hill
to be inspected every little while.

Poor Blakely! How he did hate it all! Again and again he begged Dad
to give his consent to our marrying at once. But Dad, as unconscious
of what was going on round him as a two-months-old baby, would
always insist that everything would come out all right.

"Give her time, my boy," he would say, "give her time. Your mother
isn't used to our Western way of rushing things, and she wants a
little time to get used to it."

"What if she never gets used to it?" Blakely would ask.

Then Dad would answer: "You're impatient, boy; all lovers are
impatient. Don't I know?"

"But things can't go on this way forever."

"Of course they can't," Dad would agree. "When I think things have
gone long enough, I'll have a little talk with your mother myself.
She's a dashed fine-looking woman, your mother--a dashed fine-
looking woman! Be patient with her, boy."

Poor Dad! Blakely and I were resolved that he should never have that
little talk he spoke of with so much confidence. Ideals are awfully