Henrietta laughed faintly. "You wouldn’t take me for his sister, would you?" she questioned, fearing he would say yes. William Hargrave Batchelor had spent his youth peddling papers and blacking boots. A frank disregard for all social graces and hypocrisies was doubtless one of his most pronounced characteristics. The little social amenities would hardly be required in the strenuous existence of newsboy and boot-black. "For his granddaughter," said the Watermelon. "Of course," said the general, aloud, "Maine has fine shooting in winter." "None of Maine for mine," declared the Watermelon conclusively. "Maine is a prohibition state." The general frowned. "You don’t drink, I hope, young man?" "Drink," said the Watermelon, making Henrietta think unreasonably of a minister, "Drink causes a psychological condition which each man should experience to obtain a clear insight into the normal condition of the mind." He paused impressively and Henrietta felt almost compelled to say "Amen," for what reason she did not know. "But," added the youth in the solemn tones of the benediction, "when I get—lit, I like to do it on whisky and not poison." The general who had intended a scathing reply, and firm but gentle counsel to lead back to the narrow path this promising young man hovering on the brink of ruin, with all his glorious possibilities, found himself agreeing. The car had reached the top of the steep hill, and suddenly left the trees, the narrow, woodland road, with the columbine and wild roses nodding at them from the underbrush, and swept out on to a wide, well-kept driveway, with smooth rolling lawns on each side and a majestic white building as a crowning glory on the top of the hill. Grandview did not belie its name. High on the topmost ridge, it looked over valley and woods and streams, beyond to farther hills, peak after peak, range after range, fading into a blue shadow against the sky. It was a big, square, garish building, gaunt and unlovely among its lovely surroundings. There were two porches, one up-stairs and one below. They were filled with chairs and gay, brightly fringed hammocks. Behind the hotel was a stable and garage, white and gaunt and square like the main building. It was the dinner hour and in the country there is never any need to urge one to the table. So, save for a man and a girl, waiting on the steps, there was no one in sight. "There are the Bartletts now," cried Henrietta, as the train of cars approached the porch. "Poor dears, we have kept them waiting." "I wonder," said the Watermelon, "why a guy always gets so hungry on Sunday." "Nothing else to do," suggested Henrietta, "but eat." The car stopped and she started to alight but the Watermelon was before, offering his hand with a grace bred of absolute unconsciousness of self.