ah,—I should say a good deal. You know I speak as an old friend, Adèle?"
There was a pause. Anger died out of her eyes, and her face whitened.
"You think I am—injuring Augustine?" she said, in a low voice.
"My dear Adèle, there is not the slightest doubt of it."
"Henry, do—do other people—think so?"
"Indeed they do!"
She put her hands over her face in silence, while Austin cruelly repeated certain illuminating gossip that he had heard. He saw her shiver.
"You mean to be a true friend," she said, brokenly. "I know you do. I thank you."
At that he winced; but he said, cheer- fully: "Well, then, we'll go off, you and I; we'll go abroad and leave him. He'll land on his feet. He is the right stuff. But if you stay—"
"I will go," she said, in a low voice.
"Of course," he said. "Well, we'll get married at once, and—"
"Oh no. No, I don't mean that. I'll just go away."
"You can't do that, Adèle," he told her, bluntly. "Augustine and Dora would never consent to it. You know they wouldn't. But if they think you are going to be married, and have your own life,—if you undertake me, Adèle, and create me, as you might say,—they will never see through it; they will never understand why you do it."
She was silent.
"Well, now, it's all settled," he said, keeping, with an effort, the note of interrogation out of his voice. "You consent—" He stopped abruptly, for the door opened and Dora entered. "Oh," he said, getting rather red, as an elderly lover might well do—"Oh, here's Dora; Dora, listen":
"Don't," her mother said, faintly; but Henry Austin went on, glibly, though with a little fright in his voice.
"Dora, I say—where's Augustine? Oh, there you are, old man; and Amy, too. Good. Well, my dear people, I have a piece of news for you—"
"Henry!" Adèle Wharton interrupted.
"Dora, my dear, your lovely mother has promised to marry me, and we are going abroad."
There was a moment's silence. Augustine Ware blenched, suddenly.
"What?" he said, under his breath. "What?"
Dora sat down, quickly, as if faint; then there were confused outcries and exclamations.
"But—" Ware began, violently, and stopped, for Dora rose and ran to him, sobbing as she ran. She put her arms about his neck in a storm of tears.
"Oh, Augustine; oh, Augustine," she said, and cried so that Ware lifted her in his arms and carried her to a chair, into which she tumbled in a sobbing heap. They all stood about her in helpless distress, Adèle saying, reproachfully:
"Oh, Henry! how could you? Dora—darling!—I won't do it; I won't leave you. Oh, Henry, how could you frighten her so? I won't leave you, Dora, child."
At that Dora lifted her head from Augustine's shoulder, and stared, catching her lip between her teeth, and shaking very much. The mother knelt beside her, stroking her poor little thin hand.
"Darling, Henry didn't understand; I had not said yes; he thought I did, but I didn't; and I—"
Dora looked up at Austin and held out two shaking hands to him. "Oh, Mr. Austin! yes—she will. Augustine, you will make her? Yes, mother, yes. I am glad to—to—to have you happy. Say yes! Augustine, tell her, tell her to say yes!"
Augustine, very pale, stammered something, ending with a vague "Of course, we want you to be happy; but—"
Henry Austin swore under his breath; then, setting his jaw, he looked from Ware to Dora, and back again to Ware. Instantly Augustine's face crimsoned.
But the other man turned away, and stooping down to help Adèle to her feet, said, angrily, in her ear:
"Tell the child you will, for Heaven's sake! Cant you understand?"
She, looking at the husband and wife, stood dumb before them.
"We're going to be married next month, Dora, my dear," Austin said.
Adèle, still speechless and very white, smiled, and gave him her hand.
