to hamper me, not to help me, when it’s on the cards that I could make a fortune for us all.” “I hate to hear you talk in that commercial way, Honor,” her brother flashed at her. “You’ve a gift and you’ve a right to want to use it. But to think of art in terms of money--almost wholly in terms of money, as you do! It’s degrading. Also, I’m the one to retrieve the family fortunes. I’m older and a man. It’s up to me. Next year I’ll be through law school and in practise, and you’ll see! I’ll work like ten horses. I’ll make good. I must. And I’ll take care of you and father.” Mannering, his cigar in his long fingers, stretched his arms to their width with a yawn. “Thank you both so much,” he said. He laughed. “But do I look decrepit? And who owns Garden Court? I or you two? Yet it’s beautiful to see such energy with such youth. And money-making power--though a bit visionary. Eric, do you happen to know any young lawyers who have heaped up immediate fortunes at their profession? I don’t. Honor’s scheme seems to me more businesslike. Only two small ifs between her and a hundred thousand a year. _If_ she has a marvellous voice, and _if_ she can get it trained. If I consent is not in the catalogue, is it, Honor?” The girl sitting before him on the ground, long arms folded, long legs crossed, shook her head. “Not a bit, dad,” she assured him, and though her eyes danced, she meant it. Mannering smiled lazily. “Odd how I don’t influence my offspring,” he commented impersonally. “I didn’t want Eric to sell those rubies, but he would. And I suppose that length of mediæval saint, lined throughout with pure paganism, squatting on the lawn like a toad--I suppose Honor will do exactly as her mature judgment decides. Won’t you, Honor?” “Uh-huh,” the girl agreed. “There’s one thing--you won’t get two thousand dollars out of me, or one thousand, for a musical education, for I haven’t got it. What are you going to do about that?” “I’m going to earn it.” The young lips set tight as her gray glance shot up to the man’s lazy eyes. “How?” “A job.” “What?” “Secretary for Mr. Barron.” Mannering whistled softly. He smiled, amused. “When?” “Monday.” “Nonsense.” Mannering scratched a match with deliberation and lighted a fresh cigar. “You know nothing about business.” “But I do. You know I’ve been in town three days a week for six months.” “Yes.” “I told you I was studying. You didn’t bother to ask what I was studying. I was at a business college. I’ve taken my course.” “The devil you say!” “Uh-huh.” She sprang lightly to her feet. “Mr. Barron knew about it. I told you I had a secret with him and you took no interest. Now--will you be good? I’m going to make money. And save it, for myself. And in two years I’ll have enough to go to New York and study music, and make my own career, and no thanks to anybody.”