There was silence for a moment, while the perky little Bougival clock on
the mantel ticked merrily, and madame's needles kept the time; then
Robert broke it abruptly.

"Aunt, I'm almost twenty-four."

"Yes."

"And worth a clear ten thousand."

"Yes." "And make at least three thousand a year."

"Yes."

"And uncle and yourself are my nearest relatives."

"I am aware."

"Well, haven't I a right to please myself?"

"You haven't a right to tie yourself by your hands, and your feet, for a
whimsey which may pass away. Go back to your busy Chicago, my Robare,
and work hard, and live the right, pure life for one year, then tell me
what is your thought."

"_Must_ I, auntie?"

It was with the old boyish voice and manner he said this, and his aunt
broke into a laugh, though her eyes were wet.