How on earth am I to tell poor Mark?
Oh dear! he'll have to be 'Mr Merrill' now, I suppose.

What a shame! I've half a mind to rebel, and vindicate the Law of Selection at any price.

Ah, there he is.

Well, I suppose I've got to get through it somehow." As she spoke, one of the French windows under the verandah opened, and a man in a panama hat, Norfolk jacket and knickerbockers, came out and raised his hat as he stepped off the verandah.
With a sigh and a frown she closed the book sharply, got up and tossed it into the chair.

No daintier or more desirable incarnation of the eternal feminine could have been imagined than she presented as she walked slowly across the lawn to meet the man whom the Law of Selection had designated as her natural mate, and whom her father, for reasons presently to be made plain, had forbidden her to marry on pain of exile from his affections for ever.
The face he turned towards her as she approached was not exactly handsome as an artist or some women would have defined the word, but it was strong, honest, and open--just the sort of face, in short, to match the broad shoulders, the long, cleanly-shaped, athletic limbs, and the five feet eleven of young, healthy manhood with which Nature had associated it.
A glance at his face and another one at him generally would, in spite of the costume, have convinced any one who knows the genus that Mark Merrill was a naval officer.