Miss Cabot appeared to consider. “I am not so sure. He probably is much less interesting than he looks. Handsome males over three years of age are the deadliest bores in life; sculptors of course excepted.” “It does seem to be a kind of prosperity the human male is unable to support without impairment.” Then addressing a blasé young man lounging wearily by: “Horace, do you know who that is talking with Miss Bancroft?” Horace, a round-shouldered blond whose high collar seemed to force his chin, not upward, but outward horizontally, fingered the ends of a frail mustache and asked: “You mean that pigeon-toed fellow with the dark face?” Miss Cabot could not help laughing. “There’s a summing up of your beauty,” she exclaimed, turning to the sculptor. He smiled as he answered: “It is evident you are an admirer. But do you know who he is?” “Yes, I know him.” “Well, what is it? A Hindu prince, a Persian poet, or a simple corsair of the Adriatic?” “He is a Connecticut farmer.” “Never!” “And his name is Judd--Amos Judd.” “Oh, dear!” sighed Miss Cabot. “What a come down! We hoped he was something more unusual than that.” “Well, he _is_ more unusual than that. He is a paralyzer of the female heart. I knew him in college. At dances and parties we were generally sure to find him tucked away on the stairs or out on a porch with the prettiest girl of the ball, and he looked so much like an Oriental prince we used to call him the Bellehugger of Spoonmore.” “Disgusting!” “But that is a trifling and unimportant detail of his character, Miss Cabot, and conveys a cold impression of Mr. Judd’s experiences. Don Giovanni was a puritanical prig in comparison. Then at college he had the bad taste to murder a classmate.” Miss Cabot looked up in horror. “But then he had his virtues. He could drink more without showing it than any fellow in college, and he was the richest man in his class.” “Oh, come now, Horace,” said the sculptor, “you are evidently a good friend of his, but your desire to do him a good turn may be carrying you beyond the limits of--how shall I say it?” “You mean that I am lying.” “Well, that is the rough idea.” Horace smiled. “No, I am not lying. It is all true,” and he passed wearily on. It was not many minutes before Molly Cabot was again moving over the floor, this time with the son of the house. Stephen Van Koover was one of those unfortunates whose mental outfit qualified him for something better than the career of clothes and conversation to which he was doomed by the family wealth. “This recalls old times. Isn’t it three or four years since we have danced together?” he asked. “Or is it three or four hundred?” “Thank you! I am glad you realize what you have missed.” “You do dance like an angel, Miss Molly, and it’s a sin to squander such talent on me. I wish you would try it with Judd; my sisters say his dancing is a revelation.” “Judd, the murderer?” “Who told you that?” “Horace Bennett.”