Gurdy slid along the handrail of black wood so admired by callers and jumped for the dining room which had doors of glass coated in blue silk. These doors opened into the drawing room which Gurdy despised for its furniture all black and silver and its hangings of cloudy tapestry, impossibly noiseless when one bounced balls against them. Yet people called it a lovely room. And now, peering through a rift of the blue silk Gurdy saw the butler turn a visitor into this space and the visitor looked about with brown eyes, seeming to admire. Gurdy speculated and decided that the slight man was an actor come to talk to Mark about a part. His hair curled, his overcoat clung to his middle neatly, his white gaiters were unspotted, his pale moustache didn’t overhang his little mouth. He was visibly an actor. Gurdy had examined many through this spyhole. And like many the fellow went to glance at a circular mirror above the cabinet with tiny doors which Miss Converse called “Siennese.” As Mark’s feet descended, the man straightened himself and began a smile. Gurdy listened to the jar of his high voice against Mark’s fuller drawl. “Mr. Rand?” “Yes. Don’t think we’ve ever met. Daresay you know who I am and all that?” “Yes,” said Mark. Gurdy noted the long pause. He held that actors were a talkative lot. Mr. Rand worked with his moustache an indefinite time before he spoke again. “My wife sent me along--I’m a sort of ambassador, you know?... Matter of business, entirely.” Mark said, “I see,” wondering how old the man was. The moustache had an appearance of soft youth. He smiled, wanting Cora’s third husband to be at ease, and nodded to a chair. “Oh, thanks no. Mrs. Rand wants to know if you’d mind meeting her. At her hotel, for instance?” “I don’t mind at all,” Mark lied, “Glad to. Any time.” “Then she may let you know? Thanks ever so. Good luck to your play tonight,” said the young man and walked out gracefully. Gurdy came through the glass doors and asked, “Who’s he?” Mark lifted the pliant, hard body in the air. He fancied that Gurdy must feel something odd, here. “How old would you say he was, darling?” “Dunno. Who’s Mrs. Rand?” “An actress.” “Put me down,” said Gurdy, “My pants are comin’ off.” Mark breathed comfortably, helped the boy on his knee tighten the white trousers and passed into dotage. Eddie Bernamer and Joe Walling had begotten these bodies. The fact mattered nothing. Mark was a father. He had possession. When things went wrong he could come home to gloat over Margot and Gurdy. He promised, “I shan’t be busy now for a week. We’ll ride in the Park and feed the squirrels, sonny.” “All right. Say, Mark, you’re all thin.--There’s the doorbell, again.--Oh, say, a lady telephoned s’noon. Her name was Miss Monroe and she wanted you to call her up.” “I like her nerve!” Gurdy jumped at this loud snort of his uncle. “Who’s she?”