a phony sound. It's always struck me as apple sauce and I wouldn't risk it with such a judge of aristocratic names as anyone entitled William Richardson Van Cleve second must be!"
Don't you love that?
Well, honestly, Hazel raved about sweet William until something like two a.m. Her lifeling ambition had been to pull a Follies, viz., a first class elopement with the handsome handicap of some wealthy family, and Mr. Van Cleve II looked like a wonderful opportunity.
"Maybe we'll continue around the world from Paris on our honeymoon," she remarks dreamily, "I'd love to see the road to Mandalay that Shakespeare wrote that song about."
"It wasn't Shakespeare, it was Longfellow," I corrected her. "Do you mean to tell me that this William asked you to marry him on a three hour acquaintance?"
"Well—yes and no," says Hazel. "He hasn't asked, but he's certainly looked matrimony and don't think he hasn't!"
I realty couldn't give Hazel an argument on that. My girl friend has baby-stared into plenty masculine corneas and she certainly should know!
Nevertheless, I wasn't satisfied that William Richardson Van Cleve II was all he appeared to be on the surface. Somehow I distrusted his too self-assured manner and I was no little suspicious of his nonchal-
