Samuel Carter stared with amazement, for the injured victim of his daughter’s fickleness had leaped to his feet and was shaking his hand vigorously, meanwhile uttering unintelligible sounds that seemed to signify relief, pleasure, delight—­anything except what the old man expected.

“Are you crazy, or am I?” he queried.

“Yes, sir; delirious.  It’s this way, sir; I’ve changed my mind, too.”

“Oh—!  You have?”

“I’ve met the dearest, sweetest”—­O’Reilly choked, then began again—­“the dearest, loveliest—­”

“Never mind the bird-calls—­don’t coo!  I get enough of that at home.  Don’t tell me she’s dearer and sweeter than Elsa.  Another girl!  Well, I’ll be damned!  Young man, you’re a fool.”

“Yes, sir.”

Slightly mollified by this ready acknowledgment, Mr. Carter grunted with relief.  “Humph!  It turned out better than I thought.  Why, I—­I was positively terrified when you walked in.  And to think you didn’t need any sympathy!”

“I do need that job, though.  It will enable me to get married.”

“Nonsense!  Better wait.  I don’t believe in early engagements.”

“Oh yes, you do.”

“Well, that depends.  But, say—­you’re a pretty nervy youth to turn down my daughter and then hold me up for a job, all in the same breath.  Here!  Don’t dance on my rug.  I ought to be offended, and I am, but—­Get out while I telephone Elsa, so she can dance, too.”

O’Reilly spent that evening in writing a long letter to Rosa Varona.  During the next few days his high spirits proved a trial and an affront to Mr. Slack, who, now that his employer had departed for the West, had assumed a subdued and gloomy dignity to match the somber responsibilities of his position.

Other letters went forward by succeeding posts, and there was no doubt now, that O’Reilly’s pen was tipped with magic!  He tingled when he reread what he had written.  He bade Rosa prepare for his return and their immediate marriage.  The fun and the excitement of planning their future caused him to fill page after page with thrilling details of the flat-hunting, home-fitting excursions they would take upon their return to New York.  He wrote her ecstatic descriptions of a suite of Grand Rapids furniture he had priced; he wasted a thousand emotional words over a set of china he had picked out, and the results of a preliminary trip into the apartment-house district required a convulsive three-part letter to relate.  It is remarkable with what poetic fervor, what strength of feeling, a lover can describe a five-room flat; with what glories he can furnish it out of a modest salary and still leave enough for a life of luxury.