"All the time we were together this morning, I talked figures--the figures on the face of a watch. Let us find some pleasanter topic. I believe Lord Harrowby said you were to be married soon?" "Next Tuesday. A week from to-morrow." "In San Marco?" "Yes. It breaks auntie's heart that it can't be in Detroit. Cord Harrowby is her triumph, you see. But father can't go north in the winter--Allan wishes to be married at once." Minot was thinking hard. So Harrowby was auntie's triumph? And was he not Cynthia Meyrick's as well? He would have given much to be able to inquire. Suddenly, with the engaging frankness of a child, the girl asked: "Has your engagement ever been announced, Mr. Minot?" "Why--er--not to my knowledge," Minot laughed. "Why?" "I was just wondering--if it made everybody feel queer. The way it makes me feel. Ever since one o'clock--I ought never to say it--I've felt as though everything was over. I've seemed old! Old!" She clenched her fists, and spoke almost in terror. "I don't want to grow old. I'd hate it." "It was here," said Minot softly, "Ponce de Leon sought the fountain of youth. When you came up I was pretending the one splashing out there was that very fountain itself--" "If it only were," the girl cried. "Oh--you could never drag me away from it. But it isn't. It's supplied by the San Marco Water Works, and there's a meter ticking somewhere, I'm sure. And now--Mr. Minot--" "I know. You mean the thirty-five dollars I paid our driver. I wish you would write me a check. I've a reason." "Thank you. I wanted to--so much. I'll bring it to you soon." She was gone, and Minot sat staring into the palms, his lips firm, his hands gripping the arms of his chair. Suddenly, with a determined leap, he was on his feet. A moment later he stood at the telegraph counter in the lobby, writing in bold flowing characters a message for Mr. John Thacker, on a certain seventeenth floor, New York. "I resign. Will stay on the job until a substitute arrives, but start him when you get this. "RICHARD MINOT." The telegram sent, he returned to his veranda chair to think. Thacker would be upset, of course. But after all, Thacker's claim on him was not such that he must wreck his life's happiness to serve him. Even Thacker must see that. And the girl--was she madly in love with the lean and aristocratic Harrowby? Not by any means, to judge from her manner. Next Tuesday--a week. What couldn't happen in a--Minot stopped. No, that wouldn't do, either. Even if a substitute arrived, he could hardly with honor turn about and himself wreck the hopes of Thacker and Jephson. He lost, either way. It was a horrible mix-up. He cursed beneath his breath. The red glow of a cigar near by drew closer as the smoker dragged his chair across the veranda floor. Minot saw behind the glow the keen face of a man eager for talk.