"Chlorippe? Yes. That bat-headed poet named all his children after butterflies. Let's see," he continued, telling off the names on his fingers; "there's Chlorippe, twelve; Philodice, thirteen; Dione, fourteen; Aphrodite, fifteen; Cybele, sixteen; Lissa, seventeen; Iole, eighteen, and Vanessa, nineteen. And, Wayne, never have the Elysian fields contained such a bunch of wholesome beauty as that mountain meadow contains all day long." Wayne, trudging along, suit-case firmly gripped, turned a pair of suspicious eyes upon his friend. "Of course," observed Briggs candidly, "I simply couldn't foreclose on the father of such children, could I? Besides, he won't let me discuss the subject." "I'll investigate the matter personally," said Wayne. "Nowhere to lay their heads! Think of it, George. And all because a turtle-fed, claret-flushed, idle and rich young man wants their earthly Paradise for a fish-hatchery. Think of it! A pampered, turtle-fed----" "You've said that before," snapped Wayne. "If you were half decent you'd help me with this suit-case. Whew! It's hot as Yonkers on this cattle-trail you call a road. How near are we to Guilford's?" An hour later Briggs said: "By the way, George, what are you going to do about the matter?" Wayne, flushed, dusty, perspiring, scowled at him. "What matter?" "The foreclosure." "I don't know; how can I know until I see Guilford?" "But you need the hatchery----" "I know it." "But he won't let you discuss it----" "If," said Wayne angrily, "you had spent half the time talking business with the poet that you spent picking strawberries with his helpless children I should not now be lugging this suit-case up this mountain. Decency requires few observations from _you_ just now." "Pooh!" said Briggs. "Wait till you see Iole." "Why Iole? Why not Vanessa?" "Don't--that's all," retorted Briggs, reddening. Wayne plumped his valise down in the dust, mopped his brow, folded his arms, and regarded Briggs between the eyes. "You have the infernal cheek, after getting me up here, to intimate that you have taken the pick?" "I do," replied Briggs firmly. The two young fellows faced each other. "By the way," observed Briggs casually, "the stock they come from is as good if not better than ours. This is a straight game." "Do you mean to say that you--you are--seriously----" "Something like it. There! Now you know." "For Heaven's sake, Stuyve----" "Yes, for Heaven's sake and in Heaven's name don't get any wrong ideas into your vicious head." "What?" "I tell you," said Briggs, "that I was never closer to falling in love than I am to-day. And I've been here just two weeks." "Oh, Lord----" "Amen," muttered Briggs. "Here, give me your carpet-bag, you brute. We're on the edge of Paradise." III [Illustration] "Before we discuss my financial difficulties," said the poet, lifting his plump white hand and waving it in unctuous waves about the veranda, "let me show you our home, Mr. Wayne. May I?"