than he had ever driven before. 

 There was a knock at the door. Mr. Cord leaned the driver in a corner, clasped his hands behind his back, straddled his legs a trifle, so that they seemed to grow out of the rug as the eternal oak grows out of the sod, and said, “Come in,” in the tone of a man who, considering the importance of his occupation, bears interruption exceedingly well. 

 Tomes, the butler, entered. “Mr. Verriman, sir, to see you.” 

 “To see me?” 

 “Yes, sir.” 

 Cord just nodded at this, which evidently meant that the visitor was to be admitted, for Tomes never made a mistake and Verriman presently entered. Mr. Cord had seen Eddie Verriman the night before at the ball, and had thought him a very fine figure of a man, so now, putting two and two together, he said to himself, “Is he here to ask my blessing?” 

 Aloud he said nothing, but just nodded; it was a belief that had translated itself into a habit—to let the other man explain first. 

 “I know I’m interrupting you, Mr. Cord,” Verriman began. Mr. Cord made a lateral gesture with his hand, as if all he had were at the disposal of his friends, even his most precious asset—time. 

 “It’s something very important,” Eddie went on. “I’m worried. I haven’t slept. Mr. Cord, have you checked up Crystal’s economic beliefs lately?” 

 “Lately?” said Mr. Cord. “I don’t know that I ever have. Have a cigar?” 

 Eddie waved the cigar aside as if his host had offered it to him in the midst of a funeral service. 

 “Well, I have,” he said, as if some one had to do a parent’s duty, “and I’ve been very much distressed—shocked. I had a long talk with her about it at the dance last night.” 

 “About economics?” 

 “Yes, sir.” 

 “Why, Eddie, don’t I seem to remember your telling me you were in love with Crystal?” 

 “Yes, Mr. Cord, I am.” 

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