“Well—er—in fact, a little of both and none of either.” Amos was happily growing more at ease. He stored his handkerchief in his outside breast pocket, left a couple of inches exposed, put his pink, manicured finger tips precisely together between his knees. “The idea is this, Miss Madelaine. The boy is—well—the boy is—deeply impressed by yourself and—purely as a father—with a father’s paternal interest, understand—I have called to appraise for myself the extent of the gulf between you and—get you to consider the matter for—er—early negotiation.” “What matter? Just what do you mean?” “The matter, Miss Madelaine, of—er—becoming his—wife!” Amos breathed once more. The worst was over. Madelaine could not control the flush that crept toward her temples. “Did Gordon ask that you do this?” she demanded. “Not at all! Not at all! The idea is my own entirely—absolutely my own!” Amos inferred that as an idea it certainly had its points and on the whole he was rather proud of it. “Then Gordon knows nothing of it?” “Not a whittle, Miss Madelaine, not a whittle.” The girl sat for a time in silence. Her emotions were resentful. They wanted to riot. Her lips twitched once or twice. Then came a saving sense of humor. “Just why should I consider a marriage with your son, Mr. Ruggles? On what basis do you rear that contention?” “I—er—I——” Madelaine pitied his sudden distress. For the first time in his life Amos Ruggles appreciated that any reference to the Ruggles wealth would be crude and insulting, before such a woman as he confronted now. “He’s a—he’s a—mighty fine boy, Miss Madelaine!” was the father’s compromise. “I apologize if I seem rude, Mr. Ruggles. But that must remain a matter of opinion.” “You mean—he isn’t a mighty fine boy?” “Must we discuss him—his good points and his bad?” “But he has no bad points, my dear lady. Of course, during adolescence he has been virile and erratic and perhaps indulged himself in some few indiscretions common to all boys. Why, I have even passed through such a stage myself. But there’s nothing really bad about him—nothing but what a characterful wife could eventually eradicate.” “Mr. Ruggles, has Gordon ever recounted how very ungentlemanly—in fact, grossly insulting—his conduct toward myself has been consistently—from the moment of our first meeting?” Incredulity, a flick of exasperation, now passed over Amos Ruggles’s features. There was a certain trick of intonation in Madelaine’s voice which quashed irrevocably any argument that Gordon had not been ungentlemanly and insulting. And yet Amos was not quite willing to subscribe to that. And argument was cheapening. “Just how has he acted—what has he done?” “You really wish me to tell you?” “I should consider it in the light of a very great favor, my dear lady.” Madelaine considered. She leaned back in the chair and put two slender fingers of each hand at a temple, her dark eyes fixed appraisingly upon her foster-uncle. Then she told him.