"Why, yes," she said, "if you'll promise not to tell me I'm only eighteen."
"I am incapable of such rudeness," Cecil replied. "A woman is as old as she feels. You feel at least thirty; therefore you are at least thirty. This being understood, I am going to suggest, as a friend, that if you and Mr. Vaux-Lowry are— perhaps pardonably— contemplating any extreme step?"
"Extreme step, Mr. Thorold?"
"Anything rash."
"And suppose we are?" Geraldine demanded, raising her chin scornfully and defiantly and dangling her parasol.
"I should respectfully and confidentially advise you to refrain. Be content to wait, my dear middle-aged woman. Your father may relent. And also, I have a notion that I may be able to—to―"
"Help us?"
"Possibly."
"You are real good," said Geraldine coldly. "But what gave you the idea that Harry and I were meaning to??"
" Something in your eyes— your fine, daring eyes. I read you as you read your father, you see?"
"Well, then, Mr. Thorold, there's something wrong with my fine, daring eyes. I'm just the last girl in all America to do anything— rash. Why! if I did anything rash, I'm sure I should feel ever afterwards as if I wanted to be excused off the very face of the earth. I'm that sort of girl. Do you think I don't know that father will give way? I guess he's just got to. With time and hammering, you can knock sense into the head of any parent."
"I apologise," said Cecil, both startled and convinced. " And I congratulate Mr. Vaux-Lowry."
"Say. You like Harry, don't you?"
"Very much. He's the ideal type of Englishman."
Geraldine nodded sweetly. " And so obedient! He does everything I tell him. He is leaving for England to-night, not because father asked him to, but because I did. I'm going to take mother to Brussels for a few days' shopping— lace, you know. That will give father an opportunity to meditate in solitude on his own greatness. Tell me, Mr. Thorold, do you consider that Harry and I would be justified in corresponding secretly?"
Cecil assumed a pose of judicial gravity.
"I think you would," he decided. " But don't tell anyone I said so."
"Not even Harry?"
She ran off into the Kursaal, saying she must seek her mother. But instead of seeking her mother, Geraldine passed straight through the concert-hall, where a thousand and one wondrously attired women were doing fancy needle-work to the accompaniment of a band of music, into the maze of corridors beyond, and so to the rear entrance of the Kursaal on the Boulevard van Isoghem. Here she met Mr. Harry Vaux-Lowry, who was most obviously waiting for her. They crossed the road to the empty tramway waiting-room and entered it and sat down; and by the mere act of looking into each other's eyes, these two— the stiff, simple, honest-faced young Englishman with "Oxford" written all over him, and the charming child of a civilisation equally proud, but with fewer conventions, suddenly transformed the little bureau into a Cupid's bower.
"It's just as I thought, you darling boy," Geraldine began to talk rapidly. "Father's the least bit in the world scared; and when he's scared, he's bound to confide in someone; and he's confided in that sweet Mr. Thorold. And Mr. Thorold has been requested to reason with me and advise me to be a good girl and wait. I know what that means. It means that father thinks we shall soon forget each other, my poor Harry. And I do believe it means that father wants me to marry Mr. Thorold."
"What did you say to him, dear?" the lover demanded, pale.
"Trust me to fool him, Harry. I simply walked round him. He thinks we are going to be very good and wait patiently. As if father ever would give way until he was forced!"
She laughed disdainfully. " So we're perfectly safe so long as we act with discretion. Now let's clearly understand. To-day's Monday. You return to England to-night."
"Yes. And I'll arrange about the licence and things."
"Your cousin Mary is just as important as the licence, Harry," said Geraldine primly.
"She will come. You may rely on her being at Ostend with me on Thursday."
"Very well. In the meantime, I behave as if life were a blank. Brussels will put them off the scent. Mother and I will return from there on Thursday afternoon. That night there is a soiree dansante at the Kursaal. Mother will say she is too tired to go to it, but she will have to go all the same. I will dance before all men till a quarter to ten— I will even dance with Mr. Thorold. What a pity I can't dance before father, but he's certain to be in the gambling-rooms then, winning money; he always is at that hour! At a quarter to ten I will slip out, and you'll be here at this back door with a carriage. We drive to the quay and just catch the 11.5 steamer, and I meet your cousin Mary. On Friday morning we are married; and then, then we shall be in a position to talk to father. He'll pretend to be furious, but he can't say much, because he eloped himself. Didn't you know?"
"I didn't." said Harry, with a certain dryness.
"Oh, yes! It's in the family! But you needn't look so starched, my English lord." He took her hand. " You're sure your uncle won't disinherit you, or anything horrid of that kind?"
"He can't," said Harry.
"What a perfectly lovely country England is! " Geraldine exclaimed. " Fancy the poor old thing not being able to disinherit you! Why, it's just too delicious for words!"
And for some reason or other he kissed her violently.
Then an official entered the bureau and asked them if they wanted to go to Blankenburghe; because, if so, the tram was awaiting their distinguished pleasure. They looked at each other foolishly and sidled out, and the bureau ceased to be Cupid's bower.
III.
By Simeon's request, Cecil dined with the Rainshores that night at the Continental. After dinner they all sat out on the balcony and sustained themselves with coffee while watching the gay traffic of the Digue, the brilliant illumination of the Kursaal, and the distant lights on the invisible but murmuring sea. Geraldine was in one of her moods of philosophic pessimism, and would persist in dwelling on the uncertainty of riches and the vicissitudes of millionaires. She found a text in the famous Bowring case, of which the newspaper contained many interesting details.
"I wonder if he'll be caught?" she remarked.
"I wonder," said Cecil.
"What do you think, father?"
"I think you had better go to bed," Simeon replied.
The chit rose and kissed him duteously.
"Good night," she said. "Aren't you glad the sea keeps so calm?"
"Why?"
"Can you ask? Mr. Vaux-Lowry crosses tonight, and he's a dreadfully bad sailor. Come along, mother. Mr. Thorold, when mother and I return from Brussels, we shall expect to be taken for a cruise in the Claribel."
Simeon
