"Sure it's not. It's just the way the light falls." Mr. Molloy resumed his examination with growing content. "Yes," he said complacently, "that's a face which for business purposes is a face. I may not be the World's Sweetheart, but nobody can say I haven't got a map that inspires confidence. I suppose I've sold more bum oil stock to suckers with it than anyone in the profession. And that reminds me, honey, what do you think?" "What?" asked Mrs. Molloy, removing cream with a towel. "We're sitting in the biggest kind of luck. You know how I've been wanting all this time to get hold of a really good prospect--some guy with money to spend who might be interested in a little oil deal? Well, that Carmody fellow we met to-night has invited us to go and visit at his country home." "You don't say!" "I do say!" "Well, isn't that the greatest thing. Is he rich?" "He's got an uncle that must be, or he couldn't be living in a place like he was telling me. It's one of those stately homes of England you read about." Mrs. Molloy mused. The soft smile on her face showed that her day dreams were pleasant ones. "I'll have to get me some new frocks ... and hats ... and shoes ... and stockings ... and ..." "Now, now, now!" said her husband, with that anxious alarm which husbands exhibit on these occasions. "Be yourself, baby! You aren't going to stay at Buckingham Palace." "But a country-house party with swell people...." "It isn't a country-house party. There's only the uncle besides those two boys we met to-night. But I'll tell you what. If I can plant a good block of those Silver River shares on the old man, you can go shopping all you want." "Oh, Soapy! Do you think you can?" "Do I think I can?" echoed Mr. Molloy scornfully. "I don't say I've ever sold Central Park or Brooklyn Bridge to anybody, but if I can't get rid of a parcel of home-made oil stock to a guy that lives in the country I'm losing my grip and ought to retire. Sure, I'll sell him those Silver Rivers, honey. These fellows that own these big estates in England are only glorified farmers when you come right down to it, and a farmer will buy anything you offer him, just so long as it's nicely engraved and shines when you slant the light on it." "But, Soapy...." "Now what?" "I've been thinking. Listen, Soapy. A home like this one where we're going is sure to have all sorts of things in it, isn't it? Pictures, I mean, and silver and antiques and all like that. Well, why can't we, once we're in the place, get away with them and make a nice clean-up?" Mr. Molloy, though conceding that this was the right spirit, was obliged to discourage his wife's pretty enthusiasm. "Where could you sell that sort of stuff?" "Anywhere, once you got it over to the other side. New York's full of rich millionaires who'll buy anything and ask no questions, just so long as it's antiques." Mr. Molloy shook his head.