Maria was glad when it was time to go home.

When her father kissed Miss Slome, she blushed, and turned away her head.
Going home, Harry almost danced along the street.

He was as light-hearted as a boy, and as thoughtlessly in love.
"Well, dear, what do you think of your new mother ?" he asked, gayly, as they passed under the maples, which were turning, and whose foliage sprayed overhead with a radiance of gold in the electric light.
Then Maria made that inevitable rejoinder which is made always, which is at once trite and pathetic.

"I can't call her mother," she said.
But Harry only laughed.

He was too delighted and triumphant to realize the pain of the child, although he loved her.