She left her chair, went with a few quick steps to her husband’s side, and knelt, and put her cheek against his shoulder.  He gave a great boyish laugh of relief and pleasure and put his arms about her.

“How old are you, George?” she said.

“How old am I?  What on earth—­why, I’m forty,” he said.

“I was just thinking that the best of you men is only a little boy, and should be treated as such!” said Mary, kissing him.

“You can treat me as you like,” he assured her, joyously.  “And I’m starving.  And unless you think there is any likelihood of Mamma dropping in and spoiling our plan, I would like to take you out to dinner.”

“Well, she might,” Mary agreed with a happy laugh, “so I’ll simply run for my hat.  You never can be sure, with Mamma!”

THE MEASURE OF MARGARET COPPERED

Duncan Coppered felt that his father’s second marriage was a great mistake.  He never said so; that would not have been Duncan’s way.  But he had a little manner of discreetly compressing his lips, when, the second Mrs. Coppered was mentioned, eying his irreproachable boots, and raising his handsome brows, that was felt to be significant.  People who knew and admired Duncan—­and to know him was to admire him—­realized that he would never give more definite indications of filial disapproval than these.  His exquisite sense of what was due his father’s wife from him would not permit it.  But all the more did the silent sympathy of his friends go out to him.

To Harriet Culver he said the one thing that these friends, comparing notes, considered indicative of his real feeling.  Harriet, who met him on the Common one cold afternoon, reproached him, during the course of a slow ride, for his non-appearance at various dinners and teas.

“Well, I’ve been rather bowled over, don’t you know?  I’ve been getting my bearings,” said Duncan, simply.

“Of course you have!” said Harriet, with an expectant thrill.

“I’d gotten to count on monopolizing the governor,” pursued Duncan, presently, with a rueful smile.  “I shall feel no end in the way for a while, I’m afraid, Of course, I didn’t think Dad would always keep"-his serious eyes met Harriet’s—­“always keep my mother’s place empty; but this came rather suddenly, just the same.”

“Had your father written you?” said Harriet, confused between fear of saying the wrong thing and dread of a long silence.

“Oh, yes!” Duncan attempted an indifferent tone.  “He had written me in August about meeting Miss Charteris and her little brother in Rome, you know, and how much he liked her.  Her brother was an invalid, and died shortly after; and then Dad met her again in Paris, quite alone, and they were married immediately.”

He fell silent.  Presently Harriet said daringly:  “She’s—­clever; she’s gifted, isn’t she?”

“I think you were very bold to say that, dear!” said Mrs. Van Winkle, when Harriet repeated this conversation, some hours later, in the family circle.