“Who’s the fool, then?” “I am.” With a deliberation and accuracy worthy of a better action, the owner of The Guardian thrust his editorial pen in the glue-pot. “Oh, _you_ are, are you? And how much do you propose to pay for this valuable property?” “Well--er--say fifty thousand. And assume the mortgage.” “Fine! You’ve got the fifty thousand ready, I suppose? In your little leathern wallet?” “It’s real money,” retorted the other, with a touch of resentment. “Real, of course. But whose?” “I’m not instructed to state.” “Are you instructed to take me for a boob? Do you observe a blithe and vernal touch of green in my eye, Andy? When did Miss Ames put you up to this?” “Well, it’s good money, ain’t it?” blurted the discomfited general manager. “Too good. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.” “D’ you think I _wanted_ to do it!” retorted his aide in outraged tones. “She made me. Did you ever try not to do something that little lady wanted you to do? It can’t be done,” asserted Mr. Andrew Galpin positively. “Andy, as a self-excuser you’re--” “Ay-ah! I know. But you’ve been running this paper like you thought she wanted it run over four years’ time and three thousand miles of ocean,” accused the other with unexpected vigor. “Have you or have n’t you?” It was now the editor-in-chief’s turn to be disconcerted. “I’m busy,” he said. He reached for the implement of his trade. “Who the hell put that pen in that glue-pot!” he vociferated. Then, relieved by his little outburst, he added, “Tell her we’re not for sale”; and, after Galpin’s retreating back, he fired, “And tell her that as a secret negotiator you’re about as subtle as a street-piano.” Rejection of her bid did not appear to surprise Miss Ames. Coming upon the proprietor of The Guardian on the street, some days later, by chance (or did she, as Miss Pritchard accused, cunningly plan the encounter?) she inquired if the price were not high enough. “It’s no use, Marcia,” said Jem. “You can’t get in. I’m not going to let you commit financial suicide.” Marcia was in teasing mood that day. “I should be hardened to disappointments and withered hopes, I suppose,” she sighed mockingly. “Jem?” “Yes?” “Will you walk along with me? Or do you think it compromising to be seen on the streets with the girl you have rejected?” “Marcia,” groaned the tormented lover. “If you don’t stop that I’ll--I’ll grab you up right here and carry you off.” “That would commit you fatally,” she reminded him. “By the way, are you never coming to see me again?” “I’m all tied up with evening work, now.” “Of course,” she assented with a gravity which, however, roused his suspicions. “Are you going to Madam Taylor’s tea?” “I’m not on Madam Taylor’s list, since I called her a tax-dodger.” “I cannot imagine her dodging anything; not even a taxi, let alone a tax. She is so dignified and positive and ‘sot.’ Will you come if I get you an invitation?” “What for?”