“Yes, I told him, idiot!” said Grace, springing up from her chair. “How else do you suppose he knows? Do you think he read my burning passion written on my brow? Have some sense! Did you never hear of a girl telling her own father that she was engaged?” “Of course!” said Edwin. “Of course! I understand. But what did he say, why is he coming here?” “That’s just it,” said Grace, drawing on a white glove hurriedly and splitting it in the process. “I told him last night, right after David went away; and he said he didn’t like artists and didn’t like you--don’t be angry, Edwin, he’s only seen you three times. I told him you were really a great painter, and he said that he wanted me to be happy, and that he’d have a talk with you and see what you were made of.” “See what I am made of!” said Edwin with a sneer. “Why, does he think--” “Now, Edwin, please, please, _please_, don’t say anything bright!” said Grace. “You know dad has had only me to talk to since mother died, and he isn’t used to bright people. He doesn’t like them. Now be sensible, and--here he comes now!” They had not heard the great motor-car swing around the corner of Jefferson Market and come to a stop at the entrance to Patchin Place; but they heard the clang of the gong on the studio wall, and together they went to the street-door and brought the Salmon King up the rickety stairs to the studio. III James Mallon was what is called a captain of industry. That is, he was one of those men who are always shown by the realistic cartoonists to be grossly fat, with very small heads, tremendous cigars, and suits of clothes covered with a chaste pattern of dollar-marks. He no more looked the part, however, than you look the part of the _Common People_. He was slender, graceful, and modestly dressed; he had a neat, white mustache, thin gray hair, and a mildly humorous expression. He loved his motherless daughter, his business, golf, pinocle, Smithfield ham, buckwheat cakes and maple-sirup, dry Sauterne, and detective-stories. He did not wear spats. Mr. Mallon sat in the Italian chair, and after a brief survey of the room, turned to his postulant son-in-law a puzzled but amiable face. “Mr. Marmaduke,” he said, “don’t you think that you and I could talk a little more comfortably if I sent this youngster of mine home? Run away, Grace, and have Leon take you straight to the house. I’ll be back in time for dinner.” Grace gave her father that birdlike peck which is the traditional filial kiss, and ran down-stairs in accordance with his directions. She went to her car, and called Leon from his conversation with her father’s chauffeur. There arose a rumble and a rasping roar, and her car sped over the cobblestones to the corner and up Sixth Avenue.