“Nothing’s good enough for McIvor, the singer,” the girl shot at him, quoting the half-contemptuous tone as well as the words. “The roses used to be wonderful, of course. You say they were a show when you were a youngster. But--why, you know better than I do, dad, that roses are an expensive accomplishment. The fine ones are run out; it’s only the hardy ordinary ones that live through neglect. They’re sweet and adorable, but they’re--well, commonplace.” Mannering took a puff at his cigar and regarded his daughter. “McIvor should not be too fastidious in roses. His normal occupation was as a mill-hand.” “He’s a messenger from heaven now.” The girl’s wide eyes flamed at the indifferent, half-open eyes of the man. “He’s--he’s--” she stammered with wrath. “He’s one of the great ones of the earth. He has, perhaps, the most wonderful voice in the world.” Mannering laughed easily. “Yes? Even that doesn’t bowl me over entirely. A professional musician! An ex-mill-hand! And my daughter searches her garden for flowers worthy of him! It strikes me as amusing.” “Don’t badger the kid, father,” the young man remonstrated, and as he rose and walked a few steps, it was visible that he was very lame. “You know how keen she is about music.” Eric Mannering reflected again deeply, on the subject, apparently, of the end of his boot. Quite at his leisure he announced: “The Mannerings have always been fond of music. And good at it. But Honor is the first who has wanted to go into the trade.” Honor rippled young laughter. “Dad, you can be nasty when you want to,” she commented, and dropped on the warm earth and sat there, cross-legged, like a child, like a faun, looking up at him with laughter in her gray eyes. Her fair, loose hair blew about her face. “Now, father,” she admonished him, pushing a strand of pale gold out of her eyes, “you’ve got to be good. You’ve got to be guided by your intelligent children, by Eric and me. Especially by me. You know that you’re not built to fight the world. You’re beautiful, and entrancing to talk to, and finished and accomplished beyond words. But you can’t do a thing with money except squander it--that’s the plain truth. And you’ve squandered and squandered, till we’re all in a hole. We’re in debt, and the rose-garden isn’t kept up, and the house needs painting and window-shades, and Eric had to sell mother’s rubies to pay his way through law school, and now I’ve come along with a voice that people say is worth money. And there’s not ten cents to develop it. And I _will_ develop it. I _will_ have my chance. If my voice is what Stroble says, two thousand now--next year and the year after--would mean huge sums. The real voices make--almost anything. A hundred thousand a year--almost anything! I could do all the things that are needed--here.” She stared about at the lovely, neglected garden, at the long, low, stone house with its vague air of lack of care. “It’s silly