“Hello, Clifford,” he said. “Hello, Bradley,” Clifford returned, trying to speak calmly--and for the briefest space these old enemies, who had so often been at grips, stared at each other, with hard, masked gazes. Bradley turned to Clifford’s companion. “So you tried to give me the slip, Mr. Morton. I heard what you suggested to Clifford. But I guess you are keeping off the booze to-night.” “Just look this large person over, Clifford,” mourned the young fellow; “and honest, ain’t it hell, my father wishing a party like Bradley on me for a nurse!” “You need one all right!” Bradley said grimly. “But even babies get let alone for an hour now and then,” protested the other. “You forget that the size of my check from your father depends upon my keeping you and booze apart.” Morton sighed. “You’re a sordid person, Bradley.” “I might mention incidentally,” continued Bradley, “that your father has just come to town.” “The devil!” Morton’s face filled with dismay. “I guess, then, it really is good-night, Clifford.” He took Bradley’s arm. “Come on, nursie; let’s hail the captain of my perambulator.” Clifford watched the two go out, and again he had the sense that he was glimpsing into the complicated maze behind the brilliant surface of Big Pleasure. The relationship between that pair might be strange for any other period in the world’s history, but it was a definite, though small, phase of this great pleasure life--a gay young spender bridled and the reins put in the hands of a private officer. Clifford felt a moment’s uneasiness for young Morton: in what ways could Bradley not twist his client and protégé into predicaments that would bring him profit? When Clifford regained his table, Uncle George regarded him with amazement. “I thought you had gone!” “Gone where?” “With or after Miss Regan.” “Why?” “I thought you were--well, I guess you get me. That being the case, I didn’t think you’d pass up the chance to be with her.” Clifford hesitated, then spoke the truth: “The last time I saw Mary Regan, I promised not to speak to her until she sent for me.” “And it was your promise that stopped you?” Uncle George asked incredulously. “Yes.” “You poor simp! I suppose you thought she’d be thinking of you, only you, with you out of her sight for six months--and that then there’d come a sweet little message like them they flash on the movie screens!” Clifford did not reply. Uncle George had very nearly expressed his thought. “No woman ever lived that could keep thinking of one man for six months, and him away!” Uncle George leaned closer, and spoke in a low voice. “See here, son,--while you’ve been keeping your promise and remaining strictly off the premises, what do you think the other people have been doing?” “What other people?” cried Clifford, in quick alarm.