sat down on an embroidered satin sofa. Lawton sat beside her.     

       “This room looks every whit as grand as it used to look to me when I was a boy,” he said.     

       “It has hardly been opened, except to have it cleaned, since you went away,” replied Eudora, “and no wear has come upon it.”      

       “And everything was rather splendid to begin with, and has lasted. And so were you, Eudora, and you have lasted. Well, what about my answer, dear girl?”      

       “You have to hear something first.”      

       Lawton laughed. “A confession?”      

       Eudora held her head proudly. “No, not exactly,” said she. “I am not sure that I have ever had anything to confess.”      

       “You never were sure, you proud creature.”      

       “I am not now. I never intended to deceive you, but you were deceived. I did intend to deceive others, others who had no right to know. I do not feel that I owe them any explanation. I do owe you one, although I do not feel that I have done anything wrong. Still, I cannot allow you to remain deceived.”      

       “Well, what is it, dear?”      

       Eudora looked at him. “You remember that afternoon when you met me with the baby-carriage?”      

       “Well, I should think so. My memory has not failed me in three days.”      

       “You thought I had a baby in that carriage.”      

       “Of course I did.”      

       “There wasn’t a baby in the carriage.”      

       “Well, what on earth was it, then? A cat?”      

       Eudora, if possible, looked prouder. “It was a package of soiled linen from the Lancaster girls.”      

       “Oh, good heavens, Eudora!”      

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