“That is natural, and was to be expected,” he acquiesced. “You have been very moderate, David. Many another young fellow would have found, not one girl, but a round dozen, before reaching your age.” David Vallory’s laugh matched the absurdity of the “round dozen.” “Nothing like that; I’m not built that way, I guess,” he returned. “There is only one girl, and though I hadn’t realized it until lately, I think I discovered her to be that one while I was still wearing knickerbockers.” Adam Vallory nodded as one who understood. “I have often wondered if it might not turn out that way,” he said; “wondered and been just a trifle--no, I won’t say it. Judith is a good girl, and she will doubtless make you a warm-hearted, loyal wife.” “Judith?” said David, and now his flush was darker. “Yes. You thought you were mighty secret about it, but I knew it, all along; knew that you were corresponding with her while you were at college, and missed you every time you spent an evening at the Fallons’. It’s all right, son. I haven’t a word to say.” “But--but--you’re tremendously mistaken, Dad!” the younger man protested earnestly. “There has never been anything serious between Judith and me. We were just good chums together in school, and----” “Hold on a minute, son,” said Adam Vallory gently. “We have no money, but we still have a few traditions. One of them is that no man of the Vallory name has ever put the burden of proof on a woman, so far as the records show. You admit that you wrote to Judith while you were in college, and all Middleboro knows that you were always going about with her in your vacations. Haven’t you been writing back and forth while you were in Florida?” “Oh, yes; now and then, of course. But----” “You are trying to tell me that I have guessed wrong. Before you go any farther, let me say this: your relations with Judith may have meant nothing to you; but how about Judith herself? She is warm-blooded, ardent, and much more mature than you are, in spite of the difference in your ages. Be very sure that you don’t owe her something, David--the biggest debt that a woman can ever hold against a man. Now go on and tell me as much as you care to about the other girl--the real one.” David was still showing the marks of disturbance, but he went on manfully. “There isn’t so very much to tell. I’ve--well, I’ve just found her, that’s all. I met her last winter at Palm Beach. She was down there with a bunch of New York people who go there every year. Raglan, my chief on the Government job, knew her and some of her New York friends. He began to introduce me, but she laughed and said, ‘Mr. Vallory and I were rocked in the same cradle--in Old Middleboro,’ and that settled it.” The beaten man in the desk chair roused himself to say: “Then you did know her as a child? She belongs here?” “Not now. She is a citizen of a very much larger world.” “Do I know her, or her people?--but of course I must.”