“Oh,” she cried, “do you know him?  Isn’t that lovely?”

I admitted that he was a very good person to know, though I had only seen a little of him, about six years ago.  But his uncle, the one who lately died and left a snug fortune to his favorite nephew, was one of my old bachelor cronies, in fact, a member of the firm that published my books.  If the young man resembled his uncle he was all right.  Did Peggy like him?

“Why, yes,” she answered.  “He was a professor at our college, and all the girls thought him a perfect dandy!”

“Dandy!” I exclaimed.  “There was no sign of an excessive devotion to dress when I knew him.  It’s a great pity!”

“Oh!” she cried, laughing, “I don’t mean that.  It is only a word we girls use; it means the same as when you say, ’A very fine fellow indeed."’

From that point we played the Stillman Dane tune, with variations, until we reached home, very late indeed for supper.  The domestic convulsion caused by the formal announcement of Talbert’s sudden decision had passed, leaving visible traces.  Maria was flushed, but triumphant; Alice and Billy had an air of conscience-stricken importance; Charles Edward and Lorraine were sarcastically submissive; Cyrus was resolutely jovial; the only really tranquil one was Mrs. Talbert.  Everything had been arranged.  The whole family were to go down to New York on Thursday to stop at a hotel, and see the travellers off on Saturday morning—­all except Peggy, who was to remain at home and keep house.

“That suits me exactly,” said I, “for business calls me to town to-morrow, but I would like to come back here on Thursday and keep house with Peggy, if she will let me.”

She thanked me with a little smile, and so it was settled.  Cyrus wanted to know, when we were sitting in the arbor that night, if I did not think he had done right.  “Wonderfully,” I said.  He also wanted to know if he might not give up that extra state-room and save a couple of hundred dollars.  I told him that he must stick to his bargain—­I was still in the game—­and then I narrated the afternoon incident at the hospital.  “Good little Peggy!” he cried.  “That clears up one of my troubles.  But the great objection to this European business still holds.  She shall not be driven.”  I agreed with him—­not a single step!

The business that called me to New York was Stillman Dane.  A most intelligent and quick-minded young gentleman—­not at all a beauty man—­not even noticeably academic.  He was about the middle height, but very well set up, and evidently in good health of body and mind; a clean-cut and energetic fellow, who had been matured by doing his work and had himself well in hand.  There was a look in his warm, brown eyes that spoke of a heart unsullied and capable of the strongest and purest affection; and at the same time certain lines about his chin and his mouth, mobile but not loose lipped, promised that he would be able to take care of himself and of the girl that he loved.  His appearance and his manner were all that I had hoped—­even more, for they were not only pleasant but thoroughly satisfactory.