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She had slipped from his embrace. But he went steadily on, trying with eyes and voice to make her understand his tenderness:

“Old Zenas was a squat, dark chap, a wrecker, and not very nice. The first real aristocrat in your family is you. ”

“Wait! You mean that—that it wasn’t any of it true? But the Rivers’ mansion?”

“There isn’t any. The house in the picture has always belonged to the Kendricks. I’ve just been on Cape Cod, and I found—”

“It isn’t true? Not any of it, about the Rivers—”

“None of it. I didn’t mean to tell you. If you don’t believe me, you can write. ”

“Oh, don’t! Wait!” She turned, looked to the right. He remembered that down the street to the right was a rise of ground with a straggly village cemetery. She murmured:

“Poor Dad! I loved him, oh, so much, but—I know Dad told fibs. But never to harm people. Just because he wanted us to be proud of him. Mr. —what is your name?”

“Buffum. ”

“Come. ”

He followed her swift steps into the house, into the room of the shrined portraits. She looked from “Zenas Rivers” to the sketch of the “Rivers’ Mansion. ” She patted the glass over her father’s photograph. She blew the dust from her fingers. She sighed: “It smells musty in here, so musty!” She ran to the mahogany chest of drawers and took out a sheet of parchment. On it, he saw, was a coat of arms. She picked up a pencil, turned over the parchment, and drew a flying motor car.

She turned and thrust the sketch at him, crying: “There’s the coat of arms of the family to come, the crest of a new aristocracy that knows how to work!” With a solemnity that wasn’t solemn at all, he intoned: “Miss Rivers, would you mind marrying me, somewhere between here and California?”

“Yes,” he kissed her—“if you can make”—she kissed him—“Mother understand. She has friends and a little money. She can get along without me. But she believes the aristocracy fable. ”

“May I lie to her?”

“Why, once might be desirable. ”

“I’ll tell her my mother was a Kendrick of Harlepool, and I’ll be terribly top-lofty, but in a hurry—especially the hurry! Just got thirteen minutes now!”

From the hall sounded Mrs. Rivers’ petulant voice: “Aurilly!”

“Y-yes, Mother?”

“If you and that man are going to catch the train, you better be starting. ”

“W-w-why,” Aurilla gasped; then, to Buffum: “I’ll run right up and pack my bag. ”

“It’s all ‘tended to, Aurilly. Minute I saw that dratted man coming again, I knew he’d be in a hurry. But I do think you might let me know my son-inlaw’s name before you go. You only got eleven minutes. You better hurry—hurry—hurry!”