"Amen," she said, and in an ecstasy of abandonment whispered
again: "I love you, Frank. I love you!"





FFRENCHES FIRST


I suppose if I had been a hero of romance, instead of an ordinary
kind of chap, I would have steamed in with the Tallahassee, fired
a gun, and landed in state, instead of putting on my old clothes
and sneaking into the county on an automobile. However, I did my
little best, so far as making a date with Babcock was concerned,
and as it turned out in the end I dare say the hero of romance
wouldn't have managed it much better himself. It was late when I
got into Forty Fyles (as the village was called), and put up at
one of those quaint, low-raftered, bulging old inns which still
remain, thank Heaven, here and there, in the less travelled parts
of England. If I were dusty and dirty when I arrived, you ought to
have seen me the next day after a two-hours' job with the
differential gears. By the time I had got the trouble to rights,
and had puffed up and down the main street to make assurance sure
and astonish the natives (who came out two hundred strong and
cheered), I was as frowsy, unkempt, and dilapidated an American as
ever drove a twelve H.P. Panhard through the rural lanes of
Britain. Indeed, I was so shocked at my own appearance when I
looked at myself in the glass (such a wiggly old glass that showed