“Isn’t that an unusual position for a young girl to take?”

“Perhaps it’s because I am young,” she admitted, smiling.  “But I see so many—­what shall I call them?—­semi-detached couples, that it makes me wonder.”

“Semi-detached?” Covington queried.

“Why, yes,” she explained; “you know what I mean:  the only way they can live happily together is to live apart.”

“You are not very complimentary to me.”

“Oh, please!” Alice interrupted quickly.  “But you’ve noticed it, haven’t you?”

“We notice many things which do not require personal application.  In the present instance I think we possess so many interests in common that our marriage would be considered an ideal one.  It would make me very happy.”

“You have been so kind,” Alice said, looking at him gratefully.  “You know that I appreciate it, don’t you?  But I had no idea—­you quite took my breath away, you are so much older than I am, and—­”

“Am I so terribly old?”

“Oh, no; I mean it is I who am so terribly young.  I never felt quite so young before.  I suppose it is the surprise of it all.  But you said I might have a long time.  I must talk with daddy and Eleanor, you know.  And I shall think it all over most carefully, please believe me.”  Alice held out her hand cordially.  “Will you excuse me now—­I really must see Eleanor.”

Covington watched the girl in amazement as she hastily withdrew her hand and fled from the room.  The self-possessed young woman whom he had met day after day had vanished, and in her place he saw the youthful school-girl, frightened into a loss of self-control by the offer of marriage he had just tendered her.  Yet the whole episode amused him hugely.  He smiled as he thought of his wife-to-be—­the future Mrs. John Covington—­running like a frightened deer from the first situation which took her by surprise!  It was not as he had pictured it, but youth is a malady from which one’s convalescence is ever speedy, and he could enjoy it while it lasted.  He found his way to the front door unguided, where he paused for a moment and looked back, as if expecting to see the lithe form of the girl peering over the banister; but no sound came from the floor above, and the staircase was vacant.

“An amusing little minx,” he laughed to himself, as he passed out of the house.

Alice lost no time in seeking Eleanor, eager to pour into her sympathetic ears the new problem which had presented itself.  Instead, she found Patricia, curled up in an easy-chair, rereading her Knights of the Round Table with renewed interest.  She bent over to kiss her, but the child drew away.

“I don’t love you any more,” she announced.

“You don’t!” asked Alice, taken by surprise.

“No; you’re so mean to Allen.”

The girl laughed.  “Don’t be silly, Pat.  Why, Allen is only a kid, like you.  Where’s mamma Eleanor?”