"You shall have the shoes, all the same," she interrupted, and turned
away before he could add a word.
A moment later the grey-bearded gentleman was bowing to him.
"My girl tells me you're in a corner for want of shoes, Sir. Mine are at
your service--we seem about of a size--we can change behind that
pillar."
"But," stammered the young man, "it's too much--I can't--"
"It's nothing at all, Sir," said the man with the grey beard warmly;
"nothing compared to the way you stood by my girl! Shake! John B. Warner
don't forget."
"I can't thank you," said the other, when they had shaken hands. "If you
will--just for a short time! I'll be back in half an hour--"
He was back in two minutes. The first face he saw when he had made his
duty bows was the face of the Beautiful Lady. She was radiant: and
beside her stood her Jew, also radiant. _They had made it up._ And what
is more--though he never knew it--they had made it up in that half-hour
of delay caused by the Boots. The Lady passed our hero without a word or
even a glance to acknowledge acquaintanceship, and he saw that the game
was absolutely up. He swore under his breath. But the next moment he
laughed to himself with a free heart. After all--for any documents, any
evidence, for any success in any walk of life, how could he have borne
to devote himself, as he had promised to do, to that Corsican lady,
while the Girl, _the_ Girl, was in the room? And he perceived now that
he should not even use the information he already had. It did not seem
fitting that one to whom the Girl stooped to speak, for ever so brief a
moment, should play the part of a spy--in however good a cause.
"Back already?" said the old gentleman.
"Thank you--my business is completed."
The young man resumed his brown boots.
"Now, Papa," said the Girl, "just go right along and do your devoirs in
there--and I'll stay and talk to _him_--"
The father went obediently.
"Have you quarrelled with her, then?" asked the Girl, her eyes on the
diamond buckles of her satin shoes.
He told her everything--or nearly.
"Well," she said decisively, "I'm glad you're out of it, anyway. Don't
worry about it. It's a nasty trade. Papa'll find you a berth. Come out
to the States and edit one of his papers!"
"You told me he was a millionaire! I suppose everything went all right?
He didn't lose his money or anything?" His tone was wistful.
"Not he! You don't know Papa!" said the Girl; "but, say, you're not
going to be too proud to be acquainted with a self-made man?"
He didn't answer.
"Say," said she again, "I don't take so much stock in dukes as I used
to." She laid a hand on his arm.
"Don't make a fool of me," said the young man, speaking very low.
"I won't,"--her voice was a caress,--"but Papa shall make Something of
you. You don't know Papa! He can make men's fortunes as easily as other
folks make men's shoes. And he always does what I tell him. Aren't you
glad to see me again? And don't you remember--?" said she, looking at
him so kindly that he lost his head and--
"Ah! haven't you forgotten?" said he.
* * * * *
That is about all there is of the story. He is now a Something--and he
has married the Girl. If you think that a young man of comparatively
small income should not marry the girl he loves because her father
happens to have made money in pork, I can only remind you that your
opinion is not shared by the bulk of our English aristocracy. And they
don't even bother about the love, as often as not.