"Well, bring some in, if you can. I believe my brain begins to get rusty. Will you come--soon? You will always find me in my office." There is something in the inflection of the voice that secretly delights Marcia. She has a taste for mystery and intrigue, but she is not secretive, she has too much vanity. "I will, as soon as I can get about it," with what she considers well-bred indifference. She shuts herself up in her studio all the next morning, all the afternoon and evening. She has a good deal of just this artistic faculty. The next day she copies and colors, and on the third Floyd goes to New York, and she drives to the factory. Eugene is out, as fate will have it. Mr. Wilmarth receives her with just the right touch of graciousness, praises a little, finds a little fault, suggests a touch here and there, and admits that he is pleased with two, and thinks he shall use them. Marcia goes up to the seventh heaven of delight, and sees before her fame and fortune. "Look over these," says Mr. Wilmarth. "They do not quite suit me. See if you can suggest anything. These Japanese designs admit of endless variation." An hour passes ere Marcia consults her watch, and then she professes to be greatly surprised. What must poor Dolly think of her? "For I never make such unconscionable calls," she declares, and fancies that she blushes over it. "It has been extremely pleasant to me," Mr. Wilmarth replies, in a tone of grave compliment. "I am so much alone. I miss your father more than any of you would suspect, I dare say. We used to consult together so much, and he was in and out a dozen times a day." "But everything goes on _well_?" says Marcia, in an undecided tone of inquiry. "Yes, if by that you mean prosperously. We are on the high road to fortune," and he laughs disagreeably. "I only wish your father were alive to enjoy it. It has been a hard pull for the last two years." "Poor papa!" Marcia gives a pathetic little sniff. "But then it is something to have gained a success!" "Yes, when one has friends or relatives to enjoy it. I sometimes wonder why _I_ go on struggling for wealth, to leave it to some charity at the last." "Have you really no one?" Marcia lowers her voice to a point of sentiment. "Not a living soul to take a kindly interest in me," he answers, in a bitter fashion. "All my kith and kin, and they were not many, died years ago. If I had been attractive to women's eyes----" Marcia lets hers droop, and does this time manage a faint color. There is a touch of romance in this utter desolation. "I _must_ go," she again declares, reluctantly. "Poor Dolly will be tired to death standing." "Take these with you, and I shall be sure of another visit," and he hands her the roll.