“Still,” finished Caleb, “it hadn’t ought to be, hey? Most things hadn’t. But most things are. Now look here! I’ve wasted a lot of time an’ a lot of bad tastin’ truths over you. I don’t know why I did it, except that I always like to jaw after I’ve had a big fight on. It kind of lets off steam. Here’s the answer in a nutshell: I’m Miss Shevlin’s guardian. What Miss Shevlin wants, she’s goin’ to have, if I have to buy the White House for her. If she wants you she can have you. If she don’t want you--all the consent I could give wouldn’t amount to a hoot in Hades. Per’snally, I think you’d better wait till you grow up an’ get a job before you talk ’bout marryin’. But it’s her affair. Not mine. If she wants you she can have you. Put it up to _her_. It’s past _me_. An’ now trot along. You’ve taken more of my time than you could pay for in a dozen seven-page stories. Don’t stop to thank me. Chase.” “But I do thank you a thousand times!” exclaimed Hawarden, shaking hands with boyish vehemence. “I’m--I’m awfully obliged to you. When I came, I was afraid I’d meet some such fate as poor Mr. Blacarda.” “What’s that?” snapped Caleb, all geniality wiped from his voice. “About Mr. Blacarda?” asked the boy in perfect innocence. “Haven’t you heard? It was in the morning papers. It seems he was jumping on a moving street car, up at the Capital, yesterday afternoon, when his foot slipped on the steps and he was dragged along, face-downward, for nearly half a block. Two of his ribs were broken, and his body is covered with bruises. The papers say his face is battered almost beyond recognition.” “Too bad!” remarked Conover drily. “Folks ought to be careful how they try to jump onto heavy-movin’ things. Sometimes there’s apt to be a surprise for the jumper. Now clear out! You can run an’ tell Dey what I said if you want to. No, don’t go thankin’ me again. It’s up to her, as I told you. Most likely, she’ll send you about your business. So long!” Waving out the bewildered, delighted youth, Caleb threw himself back in his leather chair and fished from a case the ever-present cigar. A towering pile of work lay untouched on his desk. But he gave it no heed. With a queer, wholly inexplicable contraction at the heart he lay there thinking. At first he tried to laugh at the memory of the boy’s loftily worded pretensions. But somehow he could not. He recalled what Caine had said about Desirée marrying “the right man.” Hawarden came of good family. His parents were among the best people in Granite. As his wife, Desirée could probably take and hold any social position she chose. He was a nice boy, too. And some day he would grow up. There was much to be said for the match, preposterous as it had at first seemed. After all, why not--? A clerk entered with a card. Conover’s mouth set in a grim smile as he glanced at it. “Send him in,” he said, moving across to his desk chair, “I seem to be holdin’ a levee of the ar’stocracy this mornin’.”