“Me and Maurice will,” Edith protested, dismayed.

Maurice gave an anxious look at Eleanor:  “It might do your head good, Nelly?”

“Oh, let’s go by ourselves,” Edith burst out; “I mean,” she corrected herself, “people like father and Eleanor never enjoy the things we do.  They like to talk.”

“I’d like to choke you!” the exasperated father thought.  But he cast a really frightened eye at Eleanor, who grew a little paler.  There was some laborious talk in the small parlor, where Eleanor’s piano took up most of the space:  comments on the weather, and explanations of Bingo’s snarling.  “He’s jealous,” Eleanor said, with amused pride, and stroking the little faithful head that pressed so closely against her.

At which Edith began, eagerly, “Father says—­” ("What the deuce will she say now?” poor Mr. Houghton thought)—­“Father says Rover has a human being’s horridest vice—­jealousy.”

“I don’t think jealousy is a vice,” Eleanor said, coldly.

Mr. Houghton, giving his offspring a terrible glance, said that he must go back to the hotel and take something for his headache; “And don’t keep that imp out too late, Maurice.  You want to get home and take care of Eleanor.”

“Oh no; he doesn’t,” Eleanor said, and shook hands with her embarrassed guest, who was saying, under his breath, “What taste!”

Out in the street Maurice hurried so that Edith, tucking, unasked, her hand through his arm, had to skip once or twice to keep up with him....  “Maurice,” she said, breathlessly, “will you let me row?”

“O Lord—­yes!  I don’t care.”

After that Edith did all the talking, until they reached the wharf where Maurice kept his boat; when Edith had secured the oars and they pushed off, he took the tiller ropes, and sat with moody eyes fixed on the water.  The mortification of the dinner was gnawing him; he was thinking of the things he might have said to bring Eleanor to her senses!  Yet he realized that to have said anything would have added to Mr. Houghton’s embarrassment.  “I’ll have it out with her when I get home,” he thought, hotly.  “Edith started the mess; why did she say that about Mr. Houghton and Eleanor?” He glanced at her, and Edith, rowing hard, saw the sudden angry look, and was so surprised that she caught a crab, almost keeled over, laughed loudly, and said, "Goodness!" which was at that time, her most violent expletive.

“Maurice,” she demanded, “did you see that lady on the float, getting into the boat with those two gentlemen?”

Maurice said, absently:  “There were two or three people round.  I don’t know which you mean.”

“The young one.  She had red cheeks.  I never saw such red cheeks!”

“Oh,” said Maurice; “that one?  Yes.  I saw her.  Paint.”

“On her cheeks?” Edith said, with round, astonished eyes.  “Do ladies put paint on their cheeks?”

Miserable as Maurice was, he did chuckle.  “No, Edith; ladies don’t,” he said, significantly. (Such was the innocent respectability of 1903!)