“It must be taken for granted, first of all, that the endearment is a
_bonâ fide_ guarantee, in which case publicity is not only unnecessary,
but impertinent. A third person, for instance, could not possibly take
the slightest interest in it.”
“It would be highly unbecoming,” she assented.
“Quite so,” I replied half absently; “and that is where the kindly
interest of, say, the married chaperone fails. In the moment that her
presence becomes most necessary, it becomes superfluous. Is not that
so?”
“If you mean, Mr. Butterfield, that I----” she said, making a movement
as if to rise.
“My dear Mrs. Loring,” I replied, “we are discussing a perfectly
abstract question; you appear to be able to deal only with a concrete
case.”
“Then,” she retorted, “the sunset has done you less good than I thought.
An abstract case on an evening like this!”
And her eyes appeared to fill with pity for Millicent. That lady looked
up, but said nothing.
“It is on such evenings, Mrs. Loring,” I returned, “that nothing but the
presence of the chaperone divides the abstract from the concrete.”
“Then you _do_ mean----” she said almost impetuously.
“Does it occur to you, Mrs. Loring,” I replied, “that you are speaking
with remarkable freedom?”
Mrs. Loring was in a difficult position. To stay was to nullify the
opportunity, and to postpone indefinitely (so she thought) the
consummation of her disinterested endeavours. To leave, on the other
hand, was a hint so pointed that even she felt it might give rise to an
embarrassment that would defeat its own ends. I pointed this out to
her--of course, in an entirely abstract way; and Millicent, I was
pleased to see, regarded the comedy with an amused coolness that had in
it very little sympathy for Mrs. Loring Chatterton and her methods. She
looked up laughing.
“It would be rather a difficult position for any chaperone to be placed
in,” she said mischievously. “Wouldn’t it, Mollie?”
Mollie was rather at a loss.
“A chaperone’s is a difficult position altogether, Millie,” she said,
“and it means considerable self-sacrifice on the part of the one who
undertakes it.”
“It is a thankless office,” I replied; “but in the case of impetuous
youth I suppose it is necessary. Hot blood, Mrs. Loring, must be
watched.”
She was getting puzzled, and evidently losing her hold on the situation.
“After all,” she answered doubtfully, “when one has confidence in people
perhaps it doesn’t matter so much.”
“It is dangerous,” I warned her. “When young recklessness takes the bit
between its teeth and plunges headlong into a course of
matrimony”--Millicent smiled at the description as applied to
ourselves--“some calmer ruling is almost essential. Personally, I think
that at all proposals an appointed authority should conduct the
ceremonies. One cannot manage such affairs alone.”
She didn’t quite catch the suggestion. “It is perfectly unnecessary,”
she replied.
“Indeed?” I asked. “And suppose the affair hung fire, and the proposal
never came at all? Imagine the sorrow of the Goddess outside the
Machine! I almost think she has a right to insist on personal
supervision.”
“I think you are talking a great deal of nonsense,” she replied.
“Then, Mrs. Loring, you fail to follow me. Take a case, say, in which
the woman proposes--I suppose you will admit the possibility--the man
might be a fool--or dilatory--or getting fat----”
Mrs. Loring Chatterton turned suddenly on me, looked me up, down,
widthwise, and through, and found no speech. I returned her look, and
Millicent broke into unrestrained laughter. The light that came to the
Goddess outside the Machine was too much for her coherence.
“Rollo Butterfield--and you, too, Millicent Dixon!--Millicent--Mr.
Butterfield, how dare you, sir? You listened? I didn’t say it!”
“You didn’t say--what, Mrs. Loring?” I asked.
“Oh, don’t take the trouble to feign innocence! I always thought, Mr.
Butterfield--! I never--stop laughing, Millicent, this is not a farce--I
didn’t think, Mr. Butterfield, that you would _use_, at least, anything
you heard in so discreditable a manner!”
“Mrs. Loring,” I answered, “I did not listen. I was dreaming--dreaming
does me good--and I heard the rooks calling, and several other things,
quite against my will. Besides,” I added, “if you will consider a
moment, don’t you think I was too deeply concerned in your--friendly
aspersions--not to have some kind of right in them? I wish to put the
thing euphoniously, you understand, Mrs. Loring, but--haven’t you
interested yourself too long in what concerns me first of all, to take
up any position of outraged propriety now?”
I awaited her reply, my eyes on her face. I should have been sorry to
fall out with Mrs. Loring; I had had too much amusement out of her to
take her too seriously, and I recognized that meddling was too harsh a
word for her conduct. For a full minute she sat looking straight in
front of her, and then smiled. All was well.
“I’m sorry for you, Millicent,” she said. “For the first time I have
doubts as to your happiness with this--creature. I may yet have to
repent that ever I gathered you both under my wing. Rollo Butterfield,
you think I’m laughing, but I’m not. I haven’t forgiven you.”
“You reserve your forgiveness, Mrs. Loring, till no further evasion is
possible. You are still, permit me to remind you, premature.”
I looked at Millicent, whose face expressed the greatest relish for the
whole scene. Millicent understood, and cared as little for Mrs. Loring’s
presence as I did myself. A new recklessness took possession of me; so
long as she knew, I didn’t give a schoolgirl’s kiss what happened. Mrs.
Loring was making uneasy motions, and had attempted several false
starts, with the object of leaving us alone. I took Millicent’s hand,
imprisoned it in both my own, and looked squarely at Mrs. Loring. She
sat spellbound, fascinated, a wedding guest who could not choose but
hear.
“Millicent----” I said, and paused.
“Rollo----” she replied.
Mrs. Loring made another attempt to break away.
“Sit in the middle, Mrs. Loring,” I said, and we made the rearrangement.
I turned again to Millicent.
“Mrs. Loring says you are to propose to me, Millicent.”
“Mrs. Loring says you would be ashamed to give in after so long, Rollo.”
“You are afraid, Millicent, that I shall say it’s sudden?”
“I am not afraid of anything that you will say. Or do,” she added, as I
took her hands across Mrs. Loring.
“Then,” I replied, “I have the honour to ask you, Miss Dixon----”
This was too much for Mrs. Loring. She burst through our hands, and
stood, trembling, staring, lost, hysterical. Then fled.
* * * * *
When the moon, a timid _débutante_ in a faint sky, rose behind the
clipped boxhedge, we were still in the arbour, Millicent and I. One of
her hands shone with an unaccustomed jewel--it had been my mother’s
ring--and her other was in my personal and private keeping.
“I believe, Rollo,” she said, “that you are still little more than a
boy.”
“Millicent,” I replied, “I realise less now than ever the prospect of
being grown up. I am merely grown out--though scarcely more so than
Loring,” I added.
She laughed at the recollection.
“And you didn’t mind proposing to me?” I said.
“I _shouldn’t_ have minded proposing to you, Rollo, had you not----”
“Did I propose to you, then, Millicent?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” she replied. “Perhaps Mollie had her wish after
all.”
Anyway, it didn’t make much difference.