Mrs. Ralston’s house-parties were usually satisfactory affairs. She was fond of people, especially young people, and more especially of young men of the Apollo variety, though in a strictly proper, platonic and critical sense. Indeed, her taste in the abstract, for animated Praxiteles had, for well-nigh two-score of years, been unimpeachable. At the big gatherings in her noble country mansion, there was always a liberal sprinkling of decorative and animated objects of art of this description. She liked to ornament her porches or her gardens with husky and handsome young college athletes. She had an intuitive artistic taste for stunning living-statuary, “dressed up,” of course. Bob came distinctly in that category. So behold him then, one fine morning, on the little sawed-off train that whisked common people—and sometimes a few notables when their cars were otherwise engaged—countryward. Bob had a big grip by his side, his golf sticks were in a rack and he had a newspaper in his hand. The sunshine came in on him but his mood was not sunny. An interview with dad just before leaving hadn’t improved his spirits. He had found dad at the breakfast table examining a book of artificial flies, on one hand, and a big reel on the other. “Which shall it be, my son?” dad had greeted him cordially. “Trout or tarpon?” “I guess that’s for you to decide,” Robert had answered grumpily. Dad, in his new role, was beginning to get on Bob’s nerves. Dad didn’t seem to be at all concerned about his future. He shifted that weighty and momentous subject just as lightly! He acted as if he hadn’t a care in the world. “Wish I _could_ make up my mind,” he said, like a boy in some doubt how he can best put in his time when he plays hooky. “Minnows or whales? I’ll toss up.” He did. “Whales win. By the way, how’s the hustling coming on?” “Don’t know.” “Well, don’t put it off too long.” Cheerfully. “I guess I can worry along for about three weeks.” “Three weeks!” said Bob gloomily. Oh, that familiar sound! “You wouldn’t have me stint myself, would you, my son?” Half reproachfully. “You wouldn’t have dad deny himself anything?” “No,” answered the other truthfully enough. As a matter of fact things couldn’t be much worse, so he didn’t much care. Fortunately, dad didn’t ask any questions or show any curiosity about that “hustling” business. He seemed to take it for granted Bob would arise to the occasion and be as indulgent a son as he had been an indulgent dad—for he had never denied the boy anything. Bob softened when he thought of that. But confound dad’s childlike faith in him, at this period of emergency. It made Bob nervous. He had no faith in himself that way. Dad _did_ lift his eyebrows just a little when Bob brought down his big grip. “Week-end?” he hazarded. “Whole week,” replied Bob in a melancholy tone. “Whither?” “Tonkton.” Dad beamed. “Mrs. Ralston?” “Yes.” “Aunt of Miss Gwendoline Gerald, I believe?” With a quick penetrating glance at Bob. “Yes.”