Jack slowly nodded his head. "Yes, all off." "And why, if you please?" "Oh, for several reasons," he returned mildly. "But one of the reasons is, that I happen to be engaged to someone else." "Engaged!" gasped Mrs. De Peyster, falling back. "And without my knowing it! Who is she?" "Mary Morgan." "Mary Morgan! I never heard of her. Who's her father?" "First name Henry, I believe." "I don't mean his name. But who is he--what's his family--his financial affiliations?" "Oh, I see. Mary told me he runs a shoe store up in Buffalo." "A shoe store! A shoe store!" "Or perhaps," Jack corrected, "it was a grocery. I'm not certain." "Oh!" gasped Mrs. De Peyster. "Oh! And--and this--this--Mary person--" "She plays the piano, and is going to be a professional." For a moment Mrs. De Peyster's horror was inarticulate. Then it began to regain its power of speech. "What--you throw away--Ethel Quintard--for a little pianist! You compare a girl like--like that--to Ethel Quintard!" "Compare them? Not for one little minute, mother, dear! For Mary has brains and--" "Stop!" exploded Mrs. De Peyster, in majestic rage. "Young man, have you considered the social disgrace you are plunging us all into? But--but surely you cannot be in earnest!" He looked imperturbably up into her face. "Not in earnest, mother? I'm as earnest as a preacher on Sunday." "Then--then--" She choked with her words. Before she could get them out, Jack was on his feet and had an arm around her shoulders. "Come, mother, don't be angry--please!" he cried with warm boyish eagerness. "Before you say another word, let me bring Mary to see you. I can get her here before you go on board. The sight of her will show you how right I am. She is the dearest, sweetest--" "Stop!" She caught his arm. "I shall not see this--this Mary person!" "No?" She was the perfect figure of wrath and pride and confident power of domination. "I shall never see her! Never! And what is more," she continued, with the energy of one who believes her will to be equivalent to the accomplished fact, "you are going to give up, yes, and entirely forget, all those foolish things you have just been speaking of!" He gazed squarely back into her flashing eyes. His face had tightened, and at that moment there was a remarkable likeness between the two faces, usually so dissimilar. "Pardon me, mother; you are mistaken," he said quietly. "I am going to give up nothing." "What, you defy me?" she gasped. "I am not defying you. I tried to tell you in as pleasant a way as I could what my plans are. But everything I said, I am going to do." "Then--then--" At first the words would not come forth; she stood trembling, clutching the back of her chair. "Then I beg to inform you," she was saying thickly in her outraged majesty, when Matilda opened the hall door and ushered in an erect, slender man of youngish middle age and with graying hair and dark mustache, and with a pleasant, distinguished face.