But they had, at least, solved the problem of what was to be done with them--they all went mad early one morning after spending the night in a single room trying to agree upon the location of a fountain, and were now confined comfortably in an insane asylum at Westport, Connecticut. “But,” inquired John curiously, “who did plan all your wonderful reception rooms and halls, and approaches and bathrooms--?” “Well,” answered Percy, “I blush to tell you, but it was a moving-picture fella. He was the only man we found who was used to playing with an unlimited amount of money, though he did tuck his napkin in his collar and couldn’t read or write.” As August drew to a close John began to regret that he must soon go back to school. He and Kismine had decided to elope the following June. “It would be nicer to be married here,” Kismine confessed, “but of course I could never get father’s permission to marry you at all. Next to that I’d rather elope. It’s terrible for wealthy people to be married in America at present--they always have to send out bulletins to the press saying that they’re going to be married in remnants, when what they mean is just a peck of old second-hand pearls and some used lace worn once by the Empress Eugenie.” “I know,” agreed John fervently. “When I was visiting the Schnlitzer-Murphys, the eldest daughter, Gwendolyn, married a man whose father owns half of West Virginia. She wrote home saying what a tough struggle she was carrying on on his salary as a bank clerk--and then she ended up by saying that ‘Thank God, I have four good maids anyhow, and that helps a little.’” “It’s absurd,” commented Kismine--“Think of the millions and millions of people in the world, labourers and all, who get along with only two maids.” One afternoon late in August a chance remark of Kismine’s changed the face of the entire situation, and threw John into a state of terror. They were in their favourite grove, and between kisses John was indulging in some romantic forebodings which he fancied added poignancy to their relations. “Sometimes I think we’ll never marry,” he said sadly. “You’re too wealthy, too magnificent. No one as rich as you are can be like other girls. I should marry the daughter of some well-to-do wholesale hardware man from Omaha or Sioux City, and be content with her half-million.” “I knew the daughter of a wholesale hardware man once,” remarked Kismine. “I don’t think you’d have been contented with her. She was a friend of my sister’s. She visited here.” “Oh, then you’ve had other guests?” exclaimed John in surprise. Kismine seemed to regret her words. “Oh, yes,” she said hurriedly, “we’ve had a few.” “But aren’t you--wasn’t your father afraid they’d talk outside?” “Oh, to some extent, to some extent,” she answered. “Let’s talk about something pleasanter.” But John’s curiosity was aroused. “Something pleasanter!” he demanded. “What’s unpleasant about that? Weren’t they nice girls?”