and descends toward the library, as it still lacks twenty minutes of the dinner hour. 

 As he walked along the hall of the second floor a woman's voice called to him, "That you, Fred?" 

 He turned in at his sister's sitting room. She was standing at a table smoking a cigarette. Her tall, slim figure looked even taller and slimmer in the tight-fitting black satin evening dress. Her features faintly suggested her relationship to Norman. She was a handsome woman, with a voluptuous discontented mouth. 

 "What are you worried about, sis?" inquired he. 

 "How did you know I was worried?" returned she. 

 "You always are." 

 "Oh!" 

 "But you're unusually worried to-night." 

 "How did you know that?" 

 "You never smoke just before dinner unless your nerves are ragged. . . . What is it?" 

 "Money." 

 "Of course. No one in New York worries about anything else." 

 "But this is serious," protested she. "I've been thinking—about your marriage—and what'll become of Clayton and me?" She halted, red with embarrassment. 

 Norman lit a cigarette himself. "I ought to have explained," said he. "But I assumed you'd understand." 

 "Fred, you know Clayton can't make anything. And when you marry—why—what will become of us!" 

 "I've been taking care of Clayton's money—and of yours. I'll continue to do it. I think you'll find you're not so badly of. You see, my position enables me to compel a lot of the financiers to let me in on the ground floor—and to warn me in good time before the house falls. You'll not miss me, Ursula." 

 She showed her gratitude in her eyes, in a slight quiver of the lips, in an unsteadiness of tone as she said, "You're the real thing, Freddie." 

 "You can 

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