“I mean I’m going to stay with you.”

Di laughed scornfully—­she was again the rebellious child.  “I guess Bobby’ll have something to say about that,” she said insolently.

“They left you in my charge.”

“But I’m not a baby—­the idea, Aunt Lulu!”

“I’m going to stay right with you,” said Lulu.  She wondered what she should do if Di suddenly marched away from her, through that bright lobby and into the street.  She thought miserably that she must follow.  And then her whole concern for the ethics of Di’s course was lost in her agonised memory of her terrible, broken shoes.

Di did not march away.  She turned her back squarely upon Lulu, and looked out of the window.  For her life Lulu could think of nothing more to say.  She was now feeling miserably on the defensive.

They were sitting in silence when Bobby Larkin came into the room.

Four Bobby Larkins there were, in immediate succession.

The Bobby who had just come down the street was distinctly perturbed, came hurrying, now and then turned to the left when he met folk, glanced sidewise here and there, was altogether anxious and ill at ease.

The Bobby who came through the hotel was a Bobby who had on an importance assumed for the crisis of threading the lobby—­a Bobby who wished it to be understood that here he was, a man among men, in the Hess House at Millton.

The Bobby who entered the little rose room was the Bobby who was no less than overwhelmed with the stupendous character of the adventure upon which he found himself.

The Bobby who incredibly came face to face with Lulu was the real Bobby into whose eyes leaped instant, unmistakable relief.

Di flew to meet him.  She assumed all the pretty agitations of her role, ignored Lulu.

“Bobby!  Is it all right?”

Bobby looked over her head.

“Miss Lulu,” he said fatuously.  “If it ain’t Miss Lulu.”

He looked from her to Di, and did not take in Di’s resigned shrug.

“Bobby,” said Di, “she’s come to stop us getting married, but she can’t.  I’ve told her so.”

“She don’t have to stop us,” quoth Bobby gloomily, “we’re stopped.”

“What do you mean?” Di laid one hand flatly along her cheek, instinctive in her melodrama.

Bobby drew down his brows, set his hand on his leg, elbow out.

“We’re minors,” said he.

“Well, gracious, you didn’t have to tell them that.”

“No.  They knew I was.”

“But, Silly!  Why didn’t you tell them you’re not?”

“But I am.”

Di stared.  “For pity sakes,” she said, “don’t you know how to do anything?”

“What would you have me do?” he inquired indignantly, with his head held very stiff, and with a boyish, admirable lift of chin.

“Why, tell them we’re both twenty-one.  We look it.  We know we’re responsible—­that’s all they care for.  Well, you are a funny....”