"I thought I was pretty decent to take a dusty ride half-way across the continent in order to keep you company on your way back to New York, and welcome you to our home, but maybe I had the wrong idea." She nodded, and almost mockingly replied: "Yes, I think you had the wrong idea." "In love, eh?" he chuckled. "Yes," she answered firmly. "Just that--in love." He smiled grimly. "A new sensation?" "No," she retorted quick as a flash, "the first conviction." He left the seat on which he was leaning, and approached nearer to where she still sat crouched. "You have had that idea before," he said ironically. "Every woman's love is the real one when it comes. Do you make a distinction in this case, young lady?" "Yes," she answered. "For instance, what?" She rose to her feet, and, going to a chair, sat carelessly on one of the arms, drawing imaginary lines on the ground with her parasol. He could see that she was highly nervous and trying hard to control herself. Quickly she said: "This man is poor--absolutely broke. He hasn't even got a good job. You know, Will--all the rest, including yourself, generally had some material inducement----" The broker gave a snort of impatience, and, going to the table, picked up a magazine, and made a pretense of becoming deeply interested in its contents. But his fit of sulks did not last long. Looking up, he growled: "What's his business?" "He's a newspaper man." "H'm-m! Romance, eh?" "Yes, if you want to call it that--romance." "Do I know him?" She shook her head and smiled. "I hardly think so. He has been to New York only once or twice in his life, and he's not the kind of man one usually finds in your set." Brockton sat looking at her with an amused, indulgent, almost paternal expression on his face. In contrast with his big, bluff physical personality, his iron-gray hair and bull-dog expression Laura appeared more youthful and girlish than ever. A stranger catching a glimpse of the terrace might have taken them for father and daughter engaged in an intimate chat. "How old is he?" he demanded. "Thirty." Instantly she added: "You are forty-five." "No," he corrected dryly; "forty-six." Laura laughed. She saw that his good-humor had returned. At least there was no immediate danger of his doing anything desperate. The nervous tension was over for the time being. Rising and going near to him, she asked archly: "Shall I tell you about him, eh?" The broker looked serious. "That depends." "On what?" "Yourself." "In what way?" she demanded. He hesitated and looked at her for a moment in silence before he replied: "If it will interfere with the plans I have made for you and myself." The girl turned her head. Coldly, she said: "Have you made any particular plans for me that have anything particularly to do with you?" Lighting another cigar, he said with assumed nonchalance: