Ambrose was sitting up once more, but it cannot be said that he felt very comfortable.
Now, Papa . . . she again addressed her angry and perplexed parent . . . get this straight. If there's been any seducing going on it's been on my part. I left home to go into the movies and I met Ambrose on the train coming out here. I told him immediately that I might marry him and I've been telling him so ever since. Sometimes I think I mean it. Would you, Ambrose, she demanded, if I asked you tonight?
Oh, yes! he responded fervently.
Then . . . Abel Morris began.
Then, Papa, you're an ass, and so I think is Ambrose. I don't understand myself at all. The man's not handsome or amusing or charming. His kiss is like a Sunday at sea or faded roses. Maybe I'm fond of him. Maybe I've got a front-page complex. I don't know why I should want to marry him except he's so successful and he doesn't want me.
I do! I do! cried Ambrose, and he suddenly realized that he actually did. He saw her at last as a haven. His life as a famous man in the future would be sure to be full of extravagant complications and this extraordinarily efficient girl of seventeen would
