When she had gone, Madam Fulton spoke in impressive haste:-- "How long can you stay, Billy? All day? All night?" "I've got to run back to New York for a bit, but I shall be in America all summer, one place or another. I'll stay to luncheon, if you'll let me." "We must avoid Electra! If she comes back and settles on us, I shall simply take you to walk. We can go over to Bessie Grant's. You remember her. She married the doctor." "I remember." Electra had returned with a glass and pitcher, and ice clinking pleasantly. She took occasion to explain to Madam Fulton, with some civil hesitation,-- "I have a committee meeting, grandmother. I had planned to go in town." The old lady responded briskly. "Go, my dear, go. Mr. Stark will stay to luncheon. We'll look out for each other." When Electra had rustled away, after the pleasantest of farewell recognitions between her and the guest, Madam Fulton heaved a sigh. "Billy," said she, "that's a dreadful girl." "She's a very handsome girl. What's the matter with her?" "She's so equipped. First, she's well born. Her grandmother was a Grace and her mother was a Vanderdecken. See her teeth. See her hair, and her profile. Dreadful!" "They're very beautiful, in a correct way. She's as well made as a grand piano." "That's it, Billy. And she has done nothing but polish herself, and now you can see your face in her. Fancy, Billy, what these modern creatures do. They go to gymnasium. They can take a five-barred gate, I believe, in their knickerbockers and what they call sneakers. They understand all about foods and what's good for them and what's good for the aged, and if you're over seventy they buy condensed foods in cans and make you take it twice a day." "You haven't tasted your grog." "I shan't. Want it?" He accepted the glass, and sniffed at it critically. "That's good," he commented. "That's very good. There's a familiar creature in that." He tasted, and then drank with gusto. "Well," said the old lady disparagingly, "you wouldn't have said so if it had been one of the foods. I have them before I go to bed." He spoke persuasively: "Florrie, let's talk a little more about the book." "There's nothing more to say. I've told you the whole story, and I know you won't tell anybody else." "Don't you think you'd better make a clean breast of it to Gilbert and Wall?" "What for?" "Well, I don't know exactly: only it seems to me publishers and authors are in a more or less confidential relation. Being a publisher myself, I naturally feel rather strongly about it." "I don't see it in the least," said the old lady decisively. "All this talk about the paternal relation is mere poppycock. They print me a book. If it takes a start, they back it. They're as glad as I am. But as to telling them my glorious little joke, why, I can't and I won't." "But, dear woman, they're printing away with full confidence in having got a valuable book out of you." "So they have. It's selling, isn't it?"