“Quite precociously right, my dear,” commended Mr. Waddy; “a lesson to your imprudent mother.” “Not imprudent, Cissy,” corrected Tootler. “You are wise to get the first refusal of our nabob. There will be hordes of matrons after him, like wolves after a buffalo, and they’ll run him down unless he accepts his fate and consents to be shot beforehand. But come, Ira, I must voyage Boston-ward for the golden fleece.” “I go to New York this evening for a few days on business,” added Waddy. “Good-bye, till I return. A kiss, little Cissy!” Tommy said good-bye to his wife, and her bright smile went with him, as ever, and her glad voice sang about him in every silent moment of his busy day. Mr. Waddy rode slowly along, trying Pallid through his paces. The beautiful head, unchecked by any martingale, shook and tossed in the freedom of a masculine coquetry. To control him was like managing the moods of a wild woman--charming distraction. Ira did not wish to trot him,--he was not to be a roadster,--but he gave Cecilia a little brush on a level. She was somewhere after the race, but it was lengths in the rear. At the Tremont, Chin Chin was in waiting. The friends parted, and Mr. Waddy turned his face New Yorkward, in kindlier mood than he had known for many years. That town, however, was not calculated to encourage moods of cheerfulness. He had seen others larger, several cleaner, many handsomer. It was hot, and mosquitoes were about. Mr. Waddy’s arrival was announced in the papers among “distinguished strangers.” Old De Flournoy Budlong saw the name and called upon its owner in the evening. About matters personal to himself, Mr. Waddy talked little. He had not mentioned even to Tootler the incident of his wreck. But Mr. Budlong was too much occupied with his private affairs to question the mode of Mr. Waddy’s arrival. The red silk pocket handkerchief of other days abode with him still, in flaunting defiance of the modern elegance of his family. In his talk, he used it freely on a forehead whose heated, anxious colouring might pale the cochineal of its polisher. He had much to say. “Where are the ladies?” was naturally Mr. Waddy’s first question. “They are at Newport, sir,” answered Bud, with a queer mixture of pride and apprehension. “They’re at the Millard House. De Flournoy, Jr., is with them. It’s very expensive, sir. Why, it’s remarkable how that boy has to subscribe--five hundred dollars the first week! Subscriptions he says to the club and balls and picnics--I should judge he is very popular.” “No doubt,” commented Ira. “That Frenchman is with them, too,” continued Bud. “What do you think of him?” “Damned low beggar!” said Ira tersely. Bud visibly brightened and polished himself in vigorous approval.