He began to read in a dry legal voice. Gita, warmed by the sherry, smiled at the lines beginning: “Being of sound mind,” etc. Nothing more aptly could have described her grandmother. Mrs. Carteret, after generous bequests to Topper and Andrew, left her entire fortune to Gita, with instructions that she give her late grandfather’s studs, cuff-links and scarf-pins to Mr. Donald, who was named sole executor of the estate. “It consists of this house and grounds, two farms, a house on States Avenue, Atlantic City, and good securities,” Mr. Donald informed his client. “There are no mortgages. The value of the estate after the inheritance tax has been paid will be something under two hundred thousand dollars. The rent of the house in Atlantic City just about pays for itself these days, what with taxes and repairs. When the present lease expires I should advise you to sell it. It was built for your grand-uncle, Byllynge Carteret, who left it to your grandfather in payment for moneys borrowed at various times. Most of those old homes have been turned into boarding-houses, since fashion moved out to Chelsea, and summer visitors come to Atlantic City in increasing hordes—the great majority of whom cannot afford the hotels on the Boardwalk. But——” He paused, coughed, and polished his spectacles. “I hope, my dear Gita, that you do not contemplate selling or even renting the manor.” “I shall not sell it, but I certainly shall rent it if I should at any time want a larger income.” “That would be almost as bad,” grumbled Mr. Donald, who, however, was relieved. “Of course it is rather a dismal home for a young girl, and I can imagine you would prefer to live for a time in a large city; but I feel sure that later in life you will be glad to know that you still possess this historic old manor of your ancestors.” “My ancestors are not worrying me. I’m glad I’ve no relations to ding-dong about them. But I like the old place and I intend to hang on to it.” “Ah—yes—well, I’m glad to hear that. May I ask if you have any immediate plans?” “I intend to stay here for the present.” “Couldn’t do better. Finest climate in the world.” “Better say that to a Californian! Must you go?” Mr. Donald had disposed of his spectacles and risen. “I am very grateful to you,” added his young hostess with unexpected graciousness. “And to my grandmother. If she hadn’t left me all this I’d have had to go to work. I hate work, and all the insincere jargon about it. Nobody works who doesn’t have to, even those who have great gifts that demand expression. They merely go on mental jags and enjoy themselves. Otherwise there’s no joy in work well done. The only joy is not having to do it.” Mr. Donald was returning to his office to prepare a case to be argued in court next morning and felt no inclination to exhaust himself in debate with a young woman who would probably fling one defiance after another at his head under the impression that she was modern. He answered suavely: