“I don’t like it. A girl of your class--and your ability----” They were spinning along the road by the marshes, passed by an incessant stream of motors going down. “It’s a confounded shame to go home now anyway,” he said. “If we could only have had the evening!” “Another time,” she said, before she thought, and was rather confused at her own forwardness. “I hope so,” he answered gravely, “I can’t tell you how much I--like to be with you. I--altogether--I’ve old Horace to see you.... Do you suppose you could meet him some time? Without his wife, I mean? It’s irregular, I know, but you’re not conventional.” She said no, that she wasn’t. “Could you set a time? Next Wednesday?” And she said she thought that would do. II “You don’t mind if I go out to tea on Wednesday, do you?” Frances asked Miss Eppendorfer the next morning. “Not a bit!” said she, cheerfully. “I like to see you enjoy yourself like a human being. Is it your English friend?” “Yes. The only trouble is, I haven’t a thing fit to wear, and it’s at a hotel,” she said. “Couldn’t you come down town with me and help me pick out something?” Miss Eppendorfer was only too pleased; it was one of her good days and she was cheerful and energetic. She led Frances from shop to shop, imperiously rejecting every suggestion. “I know what suits you,” she insisted, “I’m a wonderful judge of value, too. You leave it all to me.” At last she was pleased by a grey broadcloth suit. “Oh, yes!” cried Frankie, ironically. “A hundred and fifty dollars is just what I always pay!” “I’m going to get it for you.” “Oh, no, I couldn’t!” she protested, shocked. “You must. To make up for all I said that night,” whispered the authoress. “Be generous, Frances! Don’t be petty!” She allowed herself to be persuaded, accepted the suit and with it a new hat and blouse. She felt guilty and ashamed and yet delighted. She was so very anxious to make a favourable impression on this brother Horace. She started off, very nervous and still more ashamed. The whole exploit seemed wrong, meeting the man without his wife, and wearing clothes she could never have bought for herself.... It was common. “Cheap,” she reflected. But Horace would have made a supper-club respectable. They were waiting in the corridor; she saw _her_ Mr. Naylor at once though he didn’t see her; slender and drooping, quietly conscious of his impeccable British elegance, he was watching the wrong door. Near him was a heavy, bull-necked, red-faced man with a black moustache and melancholy, bilious eyes, who smoked a big cigar and stared nowhere. This was Horace. He surprised Frances by his lack of everything that pleased her in his brother. He was altogether the merchant, not a hint of the man-of-the-world. He shook hands with her and smiled, but it was a sad, dull smile. He was distrait, and couldn’t conceal it. “Well,” he said, with a sigh, “Lead the way, Lionel, my boy!”