It was but the day after the delivery of this most interesting paper by
Mr. Morehouse, that the laggards from Hilton Ranch, who had missed it,
and the preceding one, returned to their places at the dinner-table; and
on that very afternoon Miss Paulina, with all due formality, announced
the engagement of her niece to Mr. Roger Smith. Recovered from the first
shock of surprise, the Koshare celebrated the betrothal by a pink
afternoon tea, and made such slight engagement offerings as were found
available, remote from silversmith, florist, and bric-à-brac dealer.
The ladies gave bureau scarfs, table doilies, and centre-pieces _ad
infinitum_; the Antiquary bestowed a bit of Mexican pottery dating back
to the "cliff-dwellers." Leon framed the photographs of the handsome
pair in Mexican canes, as an engagement gift; and the most despondent
"lunger" of them all had a kindly wish for their young and happy
fellow-boarders, setting out on that beautiful life-journey to whose
untimely end he, himself, was sadly tending.
Among the more observing of the Koshare, much wonder was expressed at
the slow mending of Roger Smith's sprained ankle. It was at the
engagement tea that Miss Paulina innocently said, in response to these
strictures, "Yes, it _did_ take a long time to cure dear Roger's sprain.
Years ago," continued the good lady, "I had the same accident; and, if I
remember rightly, in less than a fortnight after the sprain I was
walking without any crutches. One would think now," she went on, "that
in this lovely dry climate a sprain would mend rapidly; but, though I
did my very best, the result was far less prompt than I had hoped."
"Sprains differ," interposed the audacious subject of these remarks,
unawed by the disapproving glances of his betrothed; "the surgeons tell
us that fractures are both simple and compound. Mine, dear Miss
Hemmenshaw, was undoubtedly compound."
This he said by way of accounting to his friends for his tardy
convalescence. To himself he thought, looking at this kind, unsuspicious
new auntie, "Dear, delicious old goose!"
This is what the niece said when, later, she got this incorrigible lover
to herself: "Roger, I am quite convinced that your conscience is seared
with a hot iron, whatever that process, supposed to indicate utter moral
callousness, may be."
"My dear girl," laughed the unabashed culprit, "I am, as you know and
deplore, a good Catholic, and consequently hold with the astute Jesuit
Fathers that the end justifies the means."