“I’m sorry I was so long,” she began as she brushed the curtains aside and hurried in, “But Billy and I couldn’t agree on the joys of tubbing. I’d hate to hate anything as much as he hates his bath. Now you’ve had some good luck! Glorious, scrumptious good luck! I can tell by the way your mustache is all chewed. You only chew it when you’re excited. And you are only excited when something good has happened. Isn’t it clever of me to know that? I ought to write it up: ‘Facial Fur as a Bliss Barometer.’ How--Oh, I didn’t mean to be silly when you’re bursting with news. Please be good and tell me. Is it anything about Steeloid?” “It’s _all_ about Steeloid,” he answered. “I’ve won out--I’ve made my pile.” She caught both his hands in hers, with a gesture almost awkward in its happy impulsiveness. “Oh, I’m _so_ glad! So _glad_!” she cried. “Tell me!” Boyishly, bluntly, eagerly, Conover repeated his story. His florid face was alight, enthusiasm wellnigh choking him. She heard him out with an excitement almost as great as his own. As he finished she clapped her hands with a little laugh of utter delight. “Oh, splendid!” she exclaimed. “No one but you would ever have thought of it. It’s--” her flush of pleasure yielding momentarily to a look of troubled query--“It’s perfectly--_honest_, of course?” “It’s business,” he replied. “That’s the same thing, I suppose,” she said, much relieved, “And you’re rich?” “A million anyway. And you’ll--” “_Hell!_” Both turned at the wonder-inspired, sulphurous monosyllable. Desirée jerked the curtain aside, revealing a stocky small boy, very red of face. He was clutching a blue bath robe about him and had no apparent aim in life save to escape from the situation into which his involuntary expletive had betrayed him. “Now don’t go callin’ me down, Dey,” he pleaded. “I just happened to be going past--I was on the way to take my bath, all right--on the level I was--an’ I heard Mr. Conover say about havin’ a million. An’--an’--I spoke without thinkin’.” He had been edging toward the stair-foot as he talked. Now, finding the lower step behind him, he fled upward on pattering desperate feet. “Poor Billy!” laughed Desirée, “He’s an awfully good little chap. But he _will_ listen. I can’t break him of it.” “Maybe _I_ could,” hazarded Conover. “You’d break his neck and his heart at the same time. Leave him to me. Nothing but kindness does any good where he is concerned.” “Ever try a bale-stick?” suggested Caleb. “That will do!” she reproved. “Now, I want to hear more about Steeloid. Poor Mr. Blacarda! It’s pretty hagorous for him, isn’t it?” “If ‘hagorous’ means he’s got it in the neck, it is.” “‘Hagorous’” explained Desirée, loftily, “means anything horrid. I know, because I made it up. It’s such a comfort to make up words. Because then, you see, you can give them meanings as you go along. It saves a lot of bother. Did you ever try it?”