_Yardsley_ (_interrupting_). Looks so like a football-player's head it appeals to your sympathies? Well, perhaps you are right. I never thought of it in that light before, but-- _Dorothy_ (_smiling_). Nor I; but now that you mention it, it does look that way, doesn't it? _Barlow_ (_not wishing to disagree with DOROTHY_). Very much. Droll idea, though. Just like Bob, eh? Very, very droll. Bob's always dro-- _Yardsley_ (_interrupting_). When I see a man walking down the avenue with a chrysanthemum in his button-hole, I always think of a wild Indian wearing a scalp for decorative purposes. [_BARLOW and DOROTHY laugh at this, and during their mirth JENNIE enters with the portfolio. She hands it to DOROTHY. DOROTHY rests it on the arm of her chair, and, BARLOW looking over one shoulder, she goes through it. JENNIE in passing out throws another kiss to YARDSLEY._ _Yardsley_ (_under his breath, stamping his foot_). Awgh! _Barlow._ What say? [_DOROTHY looks up, surprised._ _Yardsley._ I--I didn't say anything. My--ah--my shoe had a piece of--ah-- _Barlow._ Oh, say lint, and be done with it. _Yardsley_ (_relieved, and thankful for the suggestion_). Why, how did you know? It did, you know. Had a piece of lint on it, and I tried to get it off by stamping, that's all. _Dorothy._ Ah, here it is. _Yardsley._ What? The lint? _Barlow._ Ho! Is the world nothing but lint to you? Of course not--the Gibson. Charming, isn't it, Miss Dorothy? _Dorothy_ (_holding the picture up_). Fine. Just look at that girl. Isn't she pretty? _Barlow._ Very. _Dorothy._ And such style, too. [Illustration: "CHARMING, ISN'T IT?"] _Yardsley_ (_looking over DOROTHY'S other shoulder_). Yes, very pretty, and lots of style. (_Softly._) Very--like some one--some one I know. _Barlow_ (_overhearing_). I think so myself, Yardsley. It's exactly like Josie Wilkins. By-the-way--ah--how is that little affair coming along, Bob? _Dorothy_ (_interested_). What! You don't mean to say--Why, _Mister_ Yardsley! _Yardsley_ (_with a venomous glance at BARLOW_). Nonsense. Nothing in it. Mere invention of Barlow's. He's a regular Edison in his own way. [_DOROTHY looks inquiringly at BARLOW._ _Barlow_ (_to YARDSLEY_). Oh, don't be so sly about it, old fellow! _Every_body knows. _Yardsley._ But I tell you there's nothing in it. I--I have different ideas entirely, and you--you know it--or, if you don't, you will shortly. _Dorothy._ Oh! Then it's some one else, Mr. Yardsley? Well, now I _am_ interested. Let's have a little confidential talk together. Tell _us_, Mr. Yardsley, tell Mr. Barlow and me, and maybe--I can't say for certain, of course--but maybe we can help you. _Barlow_ (_gleefully rubbing his hands_). Yes, old man; certainly. Maybe we--_we_ can help you. _Yardsley_ (_desperately_). You can help me, both of you--but--but I can't very well tell you how.