And he knew a lot about innumerable things in which Mother was interested.

He stayed four days; and all the while he was there, I never so much as thought of ceremonious dress and dinners, and liveried butlers and footmen; nor did it once occur to me that our simple kitchen Nora, and Old John's son at the wheel of our one motorcar, were not beautifully and entirely adequate, so unassumingly and so perfectly did Jerry unmistakably "fit in." (There are no other words that so exactly express what I mean.) And in the end, even his charm and his triumph were so unobtrusively complete that I never thought of being surprised at the prompt capitulation of both Father and Mother.
Jerry had brought the ring.

(Jerry always brings his "rings"-- and he never fails to "put them on.") And he went back to New York with Mother's promise that I should visit them in July at their cottage in Newport.
They seemed like a dream--those four days--after he had gone; and I should have been tempted to doubt the whole thing had there not been the sparkle of the ring on my finger, and the frequent reference to Jerry on the lips of both Father and Mother.
They loved Jerry, both of them.

Father said he was a fine, manly young fellow; and Mother said he was a dear boy, a very dear boy.

Neither of them spoke much of his painting.