"I see." Dorothy glanced again at Macgowan. "By the way, Lawrence, isn't Ried Williams some relation of yours? I think Pete Slosson spoke of it to me one day--" Macgowan's gaze dwelt upon her for a moment. Undoubtedly, he recognized in the casualness of this question something beneath the surface. Perhaps he sensed attack. "A distant cousin or something of the sort," he responded easily. "Nothing to be proud of in any case; eh, Reese? The relationship is so vague that it's only a matter of family mention. By the way, what has become of those two chaps, Williams and Slosson? They were rather bitter over our getting control and throwing them out. Do you ever hear from Pete Slosson, Dorothy?" So nonchalant was the air of Macgowan that to Armstrong the words conveyed nothing. But to Dorothy they conveyed a declaration of war. From her wedding day, she had sensed Lawrence Macgowan as an enemy. She had ceased to grope in bewilderment for the cause, and accepted the fact itself; yet the fact did not cease to hurt. "I can't possibly keep up with all my old flames," and she laughed. Then, rising, she dismissed the matter. "Thank you for the business information, gentlemen. Now, shall we have some music? Reese, kindly tune up that harp--you've hardly touched it since we were married!" Macgowan heartily acclaimed the suggestion. With Dorothy at the piano, Armstrong got his harp in shape and they settled down for an hour of music, while Macgowan smoked and listened with critical appreciation, or discussed the vicissitudes of that harp. "A man can never be known for what he really is," he exclaimed during a pause, "until he can be observed either at the height of fortune, or at the lowest point of disaster. Observing you, Reese, at the summit of success, I find you exactly the same person you were the first day you entered my office. Feel any different inside?" "Not a bit." Armstrong laughed. Nor was he ashamed of past days, for there was no petty snobbery in him. He spoke gayly of old times when his harp had boasted strings of cord or baling-wire, _faute d'argent_; or of how he had read Blackstone by day and troubadoured by night with his college friends. Far away were those days, but as he recalled them one could see that the memory was sweet within him. Later, when they were alone in their own room, Dorothy came to her husband, arms out to his, and met his kiss with gravely serious gaze. "Reese, dear, there's one thing I want you to promise me. Only one; but it means more to me than I can tell you." "Anything in the world, dear lady," he promised, looking into her eyes and wondering what had caused their deep violet glow. "Speak! Your slave is ready." "I'm serious. Am I really to be your partner in everything?" "Not to be, but are."