And King Dubignon stood at the threshold of his career.

Back in the junior partner’s office the designs were more carefully examined.

“Very creditable,” was the grudging admission; “it so happens that we may be able to use a man in this line—temporarily. Be seated.” He disappeared. When he returned he was accompanied by a stout man of perhaps forty-five, prompt of manner and with a face that seemed to have been carved from tinted marble after a Greek model. This one, with quick eye, examined the designs, which he handled as an expert handles Sevres.

“Excellent! Yours?”

“Yes,” said King.

“Where are you from?”

“Georgia.”

“Learn this down there?”

“Partly, and partly at Cornell.”

“Nothing finer ever in this office, Church. You want to work with us, I suppose?” This to King.

“If agreeable, sir.”

“All right. How does twenty-five hundred strike you for a starter?”

“Fine.” And then, “Just what I made last year building freak cottages.” Mr. Beeker laughed:

“I know; served my time on them. The young wife brings you a home-made ground plan, providing for hotel accommodations, and wants a roof put over it—bay windows, porte cochere, etc. Cries when she finds your roof will cost more than her cottage. You’ll be under Mr. Church, Mr.—”

“Dubignon.”

“Good old name. Any advice needed, drop in on me.” He shook hands and turned away, but came back and placed a finger on the pictures:

“I say, Church, how about the memorial windows?”

“Yes, I think Mr. Dubignon might 

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