"I don't think you quite understand," she argued. "Samson South is running a clean, creditable race, weighted down with a burdensome handicap. As a straight-thinking sportsman, if for no better reason, I should fancy you'd be glad to help him. He has the stamina and endurance." "Those," said Horton, who at heart was the fairest and most generous of men, "are very admirable qualities. Perhaps, I should be more enthusiastic, Drennie, if you were a little less so." For the first time since the talk had so narrowly skirted a quarrel, her eyes twinkled. "I believe you are jealous!" she announced. "Of course, I'm jealous," he replied, without evasion. "Possibly, I might have saved time in the first place by avowing my jealousy. I hasten now to make amends. I'm green-eyed." She laid her gloved fingers lightly on his bridle hand. "Don't be," she advised; "I'm not in love with him. If I were, it wouldn't matter. He has, "'A neater, sweeter maiden, "'In a greener, cleaner land.' "He's told me all about her." Horton shook his head, dubiously. "I wish to the good Lord, he'd go back to her," he said. "This Platonic proposition is the doormat over-which two persons walk to other things. They end by wiping their feet on the Platonic doormat." "We'll cross that--that imaginary doormat, when we get to it," laughed the girl. "Meantime, you ought to help me with Samson." "Thank you, no! I won't help educate my successor. And I won't abdicate"--his manner of speech grew suddenly tense--"while I can fight for my foothold." "I haven't asked you to abdicate. This boy has been here less than a year. He came absolutely raw--" "And lit all spraddled out in the police court!" Wilfred prompted. "And, in less than a year, he has made wonderful advancement; such advancement as he could not have made but for one thing." "Which was--that you took him in hand." "No--which is, that he springs from stock that, despite its hundred years of lapse into illiteracy, is good stock. Samson South was a gentleman, Wilfred, two hundred years before he was born." "That," observed her companion, curtly, "was some time ago." She tossed her head, impatiently. "Come," she said, "let's gallop." "No," protested Wilfred, his face becoming penitent. "Just a moment! I retract. It is I who am the cad. Please, tell Mr. South just what we have both said, and make my apologies if he'll accept them. Of course, if you insist, I'll meet him. I suppose I'll have to meet him some day, anyhow. But, frankly, Drennie, I hate the man. It will take a Herculean effort to be decent to him. Still, if you say so--" "No, Wilfred," she declined, "if you can't do it willingly, I don't want you to do it at all. It doesn't matter in the least. Let's drop the subject." CHAPTER XX One afternoon, swinging along Fifth Avenue in his down-town walk, Samson met Mr. Farbish, who fell into step with him, and began to make conversation.