But to do that, you must be a part of those materials yourself—always a participant, sure of yourself, positive, constructive, analytical, intense, living each day to every one of the eighty-six thousand, four hundred seconds it contains.” Gracia Theddon not only preached this sort of thing; she lived it—every one of the day’s eighty-six thousand, four hundred seconds—herself. Her home, her social life, her dress, her face,—she had paid a price for everything that she was and owned. And having paid the price, she saw that she had her “Value Received.” II During these years, Madelaine had met very few of Gracia Theddon’s relatives. But the July after her graduation from grammar school, young Gordon Ruggles, son of Captain Theddon’s sister, alighted from the Albany train, gave a red-cap a half-dollar to carry his portmanteau two hundred feet, had a taxi convey him where a street car would have served at one-twentieth the expense and entered his aunt’s home without ringing the bell. Young Ruggles was past sixteen, hard as nails, tough as a young owl and twice as wise, could lick his weight in wounded wildcats and circle the globe alone. One front tooth grew over another on his upper jaw, and he had a vicious right eye. When he wanted a thing, he went and took it. If his father didn’t care to pay the bill, the bill simply went unpaid. Most spoiled rich boys are weaklings and cowards. Gordon loved a fight as a girl loves silk. Through the Theddon household he went therefore, opening doors and slamming them, throwing his cap on a table so carelessly it toppled and smashed a fancy vase, mounting the stairs with a curse and banging into his aunt’s room like a motion-picture villain looking for the escaped heroine. On the north side of his aunt’s chamber he beheld the door into the maid’s room,—at least it had been the maid’s room when last he had visited the house. Gordon crossed over, yanked open the door, thrust in his head and shoulders and cried hoarsely: “Suffering Arabella!” Facing him was a girl at her toilet—twelve, fourteen, sixteen years—how old was she? Like a startled fawn, rigid with alarm, she backed against the foot of her bed and stopped the young Goth with her eyes. Frock and pumps had yet to be negotiated. The former she caught up now and crumpled against her alabaster throat. So held, it only reached her knees. Her perfect legs were classic in silken hosiery, so slender it appeared a mystery how those ankles supported the weight. It was her head and her face, however, that had halted the intruder so abruptly. Her dark hair fluffed back from her forehead in a wavy pompadour. It was gathered with a small jeweled barrette at the back and long curls fell over an undraped shoulder, only accentuating the perfection of flesh. Her eyes blazed with the indignity of this intrusion. Her nostrils quivered. “Gawd, what a filly!” was all the young worldly wiseman could articulate.