Nervously Allan Harrowby walked the floor. In a moment the door opened, and the tall, blond Chicago man stood in the doorway. His blue eyes glowed. Without a word he came into the room, and gripped the hand of his brother, then stood gazing as if he would never get enough. And then George Harrowby spoke. "Is that a ready-made suit you have on, Allan?" he asked huskily. "Why--why--yes, George." "I thought so. It's a rotten bad fit, Allan. A rotten bad fit." Thus did George Harrowby greet the first of his kin he had seen in a quarter of a century. Thus did he give the lie to fiction, and to Trimmer, writer of "fancy seeing you after all these years" speeches. He dropped his younger brother's hand and strode to the window. He looked out. The courtyard of the De la Pax was strangely misty even in the morning sunlight. Then he turned, smiling. "How's the old boy?" he asked. "He's well, George. Speaks of you--now and then. Think he'd like to see you. Why not run over and look him up?" "I will." George Harrowby turned again to the window. "Ought to have buried the hatchet long ago. Been so busy--but I'll change all that. I'll run over and see him first chance I get--and I'll write to him to-day." "Good. Great to see you again, George. Heard you'd shuffled off." "Not much. Alive and well in Chicago. Great to see you." "Suppose you know about the wedding?" "Yes. Fine girl, too. Had a waiter point her out to me at breakfast--rather rude, but I was in a hurry to see her. Er--pretty far gone and all that, Allan?" "Pretty far gone." "That's the eye. I was afraid it might be a financial proposition until I saw the girl." Allan shifted nervously. "Ah--er--of course, you're Lord Harrowby," he said. George Harrowby threw back his head and laughed his hearty pleasant laugh. "Sit down, kid," he said. And the scion of nobility, thus informally addressed, sat. "I thought you'd come at me with the title," said George Harrowby, also dropping into a chair. "Don't go, Mr. Minot--no secrets here. Allan, you and your wife must come out and see us. Got a wife myself--fine girl--she's from Marion, Indiana. And I've got two of the liveliest little Americans you ever saw. Live in a little Chicago suburb--homey house, shady street, neighbors all from down country way. Gibson's drawings on the walls, George Ade's books on the tables, phonograph in the corner with all of George M. Cohan's songs. Whole family wakes in the morning ready for a McCutcheon cartoon. My boys talk about nothing but Cubs and White Sox all summer. They're going to a western university in a few years. We raised 'em on James Whitcomb Riley's poems. Well, Allan----" "Well, George----"