But it was Caroline without a doubt: Caroline’s features though in decay; Caroline’s figure, if brittle and stiff in movement; Caroline’s manner, unmistakably compounded of a delightful insolence and an enviable self assurance; and, most of all, Caroline’s voice, broken and shaky, yet with a ring in it that still could and did make chauffeurs want to drive laundry wagons and cause cigarettes to fall from the fingers of urban grandsons. She stood and sniffed. Her eyes found the cigarette upon the floor. “What’s that?” she cried. The words were not a question--they were an entire litany of suspicion, accusation, confirmation, and decision. She tarried over them scarcely an instant. “Stand up!” she said to her grandson, “stand up and blow that nicotine out of your lungs!” The young man looked at her in trepidation. “Blow!” she commanded. He pursed his lips feebly and blew into the air. “Blow!” she repeated, more peremptorily than before. He blew again, helplessly, ridiculously. “Do you realize,” she went on briskly, “that you’ve forfeited five thousand dollars in five minutes?” Merlin momentarily expected the young man to fall pleading upon his knees, but such is the nobility of human nature that he remained standing--even blew again into the air, partly from nervousness, partly, no doubt, with some vague hope of reingratiating himself. “Young ass!” cried Caroline. “Once more, just once more and you leave college and go to work.” This threat had such an overwhelming effect upon the young man that he took on an even paler pallor than was natural to him. But Caroline was not through. “Do you think I don’t know what you and your brothers, yes, and your asinine father too, think of me? Well, I do. You think I’m senile. You think I’m soft. I’m not!” She struck herself with her fist as though to prove that she was a mass of muscle and sinew. “And I’ll have more brains left when you’ve got me laid out in the drawing-room some sunny day than you and the rest of them were born with.” “But Grandmother----” “Be quiet. You, a thin little stick of a boy, who if it weren’t for my money might have risen to be a journeyman barber out in the Bronx--Let me see your hands. Ugh! The hands of a barber--_you_ presume to be smart with _me_, who once had three counts and a bona-fide duke, not to mention half a dozen papal titles pursue me from the city of Rome to the city of New York.” She paused, took breath. “Stand up! Blow’!” The young man obediently blew. Simultaneously the door opened and an excited gentleman of middle age who wore a coat and hat trimmed with fur, and seemed, moreover, to be trimmed with the same sort of fur himself on upper lip and chin, rushed into the store and up to Caroline. “Found you at last,” he cried. “Been looking for you all over town. Tried your house on the ’phone and your secretary told me he thought you’d gone to a bookshop called the Moonlight--” Caroline turned to him irritably.