The girl shot a sidewise look at Bob, standing now with his arms folded like Hamlet. Perhaps he had come from such a funereal house as she, herself, so well remembered? Had dad’s trouble, or tragedy, weighed on him unduly? Had it made him—for the moment—just slightly irresponsible? Miss Gerald, as has been intimated, had frankly liked Bob as an outdoor companion, or an indoor one, too, sometimes, for that matter. He was one of the few men, for example, she would “trot” with. He could “trot” in an eminently respectful manner, being possessed of an innate refinement, or chivalry, which certainly seemed good to her, after some of those other wild Terpsichorean performances of myriad masculine manikins in the mad world of Milliondom. “I suppose your father has taken his trouble much to heart?” Miss Gerald now observed. “Not a bit.” “No?” In surprise. “No.” “Why not?” “Said he looked to me to keep him in affluence the rest of his days.” “To you?” “That’s right.” “But how?—What are you going to do?” “Hustle.” “At what?” “Don’t know. Got to find out.” “What did you plan doing, when at college?” “Nothing.” “Is it”—Miss Gerald got back to where she had been before—“the sense of awful responsibility,” with slight sarcasm, “that has turned your brain?” “I’m not crazy.” “No?” She remembered that most people in asylums say that. “Though I may be in a matter of three weeks,” Bob added, more to himself than to her. “Why three weeks?” “Well, if I don’t—just shouldn’t happen to go crazy during that time, I’ll be all right, after that.” “Why do you allow a specified period for your mental deterioration?” “_I_ didn’t allow it.” “Who did?” “Can’t tell you.” Miss Gerald pondered on this answer. It would seem as if Bob had “hallucinations,” if nothing worse. He was possessed of the idea, no doubt, that he would go crazy within three weeks. He didn’t realize that the “deterioration,” she referred to, might have already begun. He looked normal enough, though, had the most normal-looking eyes. Could it be that he was acting? And if he was acting, why was he? That seemed incomprehensible. Anyhow, it couldn’t be a sense of responsibility that had “upset” Bob. She became sure of that now. He played a losing game with too much dash and brilliancy! Hadn’t she seen him at polo—hadn’t she held her breath and thrilled when he had “sailed in” and with irresistible vim snatched victory out of defeat? No; Bob wasn’t a “quitter.” “So your father looks to you to support him?” “So he said. The governor’s a bit of a joker though, you know. He may be only putting up a bluff to try me out.” “What did he advise you to do?” Bob shivered. “Matrimonial market.” “You mean—?” “Heiress.” Succinctly. “Any particular one?” “Dad did mention a name.” “Not—?” She looked at him. “Yes.” An awful pause.