May’s lofty look drooped.

“And if”—­continued Mrs. Dagon—­“if it was so wonderfully impossible that Abel should marry Hope Wayne, why might he not have married Grace Plumer, or some other rich girl?  I’m sure I don’t care who.  It was evidently the only thing for him, whatever it may be for other people.  When you are of my age, May, you will rate things differently.  Well-bred men and women in society ought to be able to marry any body.  Society isn’t heaven, and it’s silly to behave as if it were.  Your romance is very pretty, dear; we all have it when we are young, as we have the measles and the whooping-cough.  But we get robust constitutions, my dear,” said the old lady, smiling kindly, “when we have been through all that business.  When you and Gabriel have half a dozen children, and your girls grow up to be married, you’ll understand all about it.  I suppose you know about Mellish Whitloe and Laura Magot, don’t you, dear?”

May shook her head negatively.

“Well, they are people who were wise early.  Just after they were married he said to her, ’Laura, I see that you are fond of this new dance which is coming in; you like to waltz.’  ‘Yes, I do,’ said she.  ’Well, I don’t like it, and I don’t want you to waltz.’  She pouted and cried, and called him a tyrant.  He hummed Yankee Doodle.  ‘I will waltz,’ said she at length.  ‘Very well, my dear,’ he answered.  ’I’ll make a bargain with you.  If you waltz, I’ll get drunk.’  You see it works perfectly.  They respect each other, and each does as the other wishes.  I hope you’ll be as wise with Gabriel, my dear.”

“Aunt, I hope I shall never be as old as you are,” said May, quietly.  “I’d rather die.”

Mrs. Dagon laughed her laugh.  “That’s right, dear, stand by your colors.  You’re all safe.  Gabriel is Lawrence’s partner.  You can afford to be romantic, dear.”

As she spoke the door opened, and Abel entered.  His dress was disordered, his face was flushed, and his manner excited.  He ran up to May and kissed her.  She recoiled from the unaccustomed caress, and both she and Mrs. Dagon perceived in his appearance and manner, as well as in the odor which presently filled the room, that Abel was intoxicated.

“May, darling,” he began in a maudlin tone, “how’s our dear mother?”

“She’s pretty well,” replied May, “but you had better not go up and see her.”

“No, darling, I won’t go if you say not.”

His eyes then fell uncertainly upon Mrs. Dagon, and he added, thickly,

“That’s only Aunt Dagon.  How do, Aunt Dagon?”

He smiled at her and at May, and continued,

“I don’t mind Aunt Dagon.  Do you mind her, May?”

“What do you want, Abel?” asked May, with the old expression sliding into her eyes that used to be there when she sat alone—­a fairy princess in her tower, and thought of many things.

Abel had seated himself upon the sofa, with his hat still on his head.  There was perhaps something in May’s tone that alarmed him, for he began to shed tears.