“It’s a bargain, then.  But there’s something else that would surprise her, too.  I’m going to work.”

“But not at once,” put in Mary de Peyster, nee Mary Morgan, in her soft contralto voice, that seemed to effervesce with mischief.  “Tell Matilda what you’re doing to do.”

“I’ve already told you, Matilda, about my little experiment in the pick-and-shovel line.  I decided that I didn’t care for that profession.  I’ve saved a few hundred out of my allowance.  Monday I’m going to enter the School of Mines at Columbia—­am going to study straight through the summer—­night and day till the money gives out.  By that time I ought to be able to get a job that will support us.  And then I’ll study hard of nights till I become a real mining engineer!”

“But we’ve got to live close!  Oh, but we’ve got to live close!” exclaimed Mary joyously, as though living close were one of the chiefest pleasures of life.

“Yes, we’ve certainly got to live close!” emphasized Jack.  “That’s why we’re here.”

“Why you’re here?” repeated Mrs. De Peyster in a low, dazed tone.

“Yes.”  Jack gave a gleeful, excited laugh.  “I had an inspiration how to economize.  Says I to Mary, ’Mary, since mother is away, and this big house is empty except for you, Matilda, why pay rent?’ So here we are, and here we’re going to live all summer—­on the ‘q t,’ of course.”  He slipped an arm about Mary and one about Mrs. De Peyster, and again laughed his gleeful, excited laugh.  “Just you, and Mary, and me—­and, oh, say, Matilda, won’t it be a lark!”

CHAPTER VIII

THE HONEYMOONERS

Again Jack’s arm tightened about Mrs. De Peyster in his convulsive glee, and again he exclaimed, “Oh, Matilda, won’t it be a lark!”

Only the embrace of Jack’s good left arm kept Mrs. De Peyster from subsiding into a jellied heap upon her parqueted floor.  It had ever been her pride, and a saying of her admirers, that she always rose equal to every emergency.  But at the present moment she had not a thought, had not a single distinct sensation.  She was wildly, weakly, terrifyingly dizzy—­that was all; and her only self-control, if the paralysis of an organ may be called controlling it, was that she held her tongue.

Fortunately, at first, there was little necessity for her speaking.  The bride and groom were too joyously loquacious to allow her much chance for words, and too bubbling over with their love and with the spirit of daring mischief to be observant of any strangeness in her demeanor that the darkness did not mask.  As they chattered on, Mrs. De Peyster began to regain some slight steadiness—­enough to consider spasmodically how she was to escape undiscovered from the pair, how she was to extricate herself from the predicament of the moment—­for beyond that moment’s danger she had not the power to think.  She had decided that she must somehow get away from the couple at once; in the darkness slip unobserved into her sitting-room; lock the door; remain there noiseless;—­she had decided so much, when suddenly her wits were sent spinning by a new fear.