"You're a mean bunch, you artists," he said. "I'd like to meet that girl, but because I'm a broker anybody'd think I had rat-plague from the way you all quarantine her--yes, the whole lot of you--Ogilvy, Annan, Querida. Why, even Penrhyn Cardemon has met her; he told me so; and if he has why can't I--" "For heaven's sake let up!" said Neville, keeping his temper, "and tell me how everybody is at Ashuelyn." "Huh! I'm ridden off as usual," grunted Cameron. "All right, then; I'll fix it myself. What was it you were gracious enough to inquire of me?" "How the people are at Ashuelyn?" repeated Neville. "How they are? How the deuce do I know? Your mother embroiders and reads _The Atlantic Monthly_; your father tucks his hands behind him and critically inspects the landscape; and when he doesn't do that he reads Herbert Spencer. Your efficient sister nourishes her progeny and does all things thoroughly and well; Gordon digs up some trees and plants others and squirts un-fragrant mixtures over the shrubbery, and sits on fences talking to various Rubes. Stephanie floats about like a well-fed angel, with a fox-terrier, and makes a monkey of me at tennis whenever I'm lunatic enough to let her, and generally dispenses sweetness, wholesomeness, and light upon a worthy household. I wouldn't mind marrying that girl," he added casually. "What do you think?" Neville laughed: "Why don't you? She's the nicest girl I ever knew--almost." "I'd ask her to marry me," said Cameron facetiously; "only I'm afraid such a dazzling prospect would turn her head and completely spoil her." He spoke gaily and laughed loudly--almost boisterously. Neville glanced at him with a feeling that Cameron was slightly overdoing it--rather forcing the mirth without any particular reason. After a moment he said: "Sandy, you don't have to be a clown if you don't want to be, you know." "Can't help it," said Cameron, reddening; "everybody expects it now. When Ogilvy was here we played in a double ring to crowded houses. Every seat on the veranda was taken; we turned 'em away, my boy. _What_ was it you started to say about Stephanie?" "I didn't start to say anything about Stephanie." "Oh, I thought you were going to"--his voice died into an uncertain grumble. Neville glanced at him again, thoughtfully. "You know, Sandy," he said, "that there's another side to you--which, for some occult reason you seem to hide--even to be ashamed of." "Sure I'm ashamed to be a broker with all you highbrows lining out homers for the girls while I have to sit on the bleachers and score 'em up. If I try to make a hit with the ladies it's a bingle; and it's the bench and the bush-league for muh--"