"
"Not until he had spoken to your Father," he observed, setting his jaw.
"He's here for that, and you know it. You can't play fast and loose with
a man, you know."
"Don't you dare to let him speak to father!"
He shrugged his shoulders.
"That's between you to, of course," he said. "It's not up to me. Tell
him yourself, if you've changed your mind. I don't intend," he went on,
impressively, "to have any share in ruining his life."
"Oh piffle," I said. I am aware that this is slang, and does not belong
in a Theme. But I was driven to saying it.
I got through the crowd by using my elbows. I am afraid I gave
the Bishop quite a prod, and I caught Mr. Andrews on his rotateing
waistcoat. But I was desparate.
Alas, I was too late.
The caterer's man, who had taken Patrick's place in a hurry, was at the
punch bowl, and father was gone. I was just in time to see him take H.
into his library and close the door.
Here words fail me. I knew perfectly well that beyond that door H, whom
I had invented and who therefore simply did not exist, was asking for my
Hand. I made up my mind at once to run away and go on the stage, and
I had even got part way up the stairs, when I remembered that, with
a dollar for the picture and five dollars for the violets and three
dollars for the hat pin I had given Sis, and two dollars and a quarter
for mother's handkercheif case, I had exactly a dollar and seventy-five
cents in the world.
I WAS TRAPPED.
I went up to my room, and sat and waited.
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