It was the thing, too, to be alive with interest in some semi-public topic or other; and Helen was alive to the value of self-advertising. A week never went by that her name did not appear in the society news of the city or county papers. She had been out just as long as Frank Barton had been manager of the Hapwood-Diller Company. She did not really care a fillip for Frank Barton--not at this time--nor for any other man. But she thoroughly enjoyed the reputation of having more men dangling after her than any other girl in Mailsburg. She even endured the society of that “tame cat,” Morrison Copley; for at least he counted! “Really, Mr. Barton,” Helen said, having got the manager beside her in the driving seat of the car. “Really, you show very little interest in your country’s welfare. Don’t you realize _yet_ we are _at war_?” Barton’s face was rather glum, but he tried to speak lightly. “I read something about it in the papers. I’ve been so extremely busy, Miss Fuller, I fear I should only know of it from hearsay if the Germans sailed up the creek and landed at old Hammerly’s dock.” “The boys of the National Guard marched away to-day!” she cried. “Yes. That does make it look serious,” he agreed in a graver strain. “Everybody should do his or her bit, Mr. Barton,” the girl said with an admonitory air. “I am _astonished_ at you. As I tell Morry Copley, if I were a man nothing should keep me out of uniform. I _do_ think those khaki colors are awfully _sweet_.” “I fear,” Barton said grimly, “that the fellows who put on khaki because it looks ‘sweet’ will not make particularly good soldiers.” “Morry Copley, for instance?” and she laughed at herself and at the non-present Copley. “Oh, well, you know what I mean. It really seems _too_ bad that so many of you men in this town are not a bit patriotic.” “You’ve got me wrong, Miss Fuller,” the manager said hastily and in considerable earnestness. “I do not think I lack patriotism. But one must fulfill one’s duty.” “Oh, business!” she exclaimed, scornfully. He was on the defensive. “Your father’s income from our company is what enables you to drive about in this car, Miss Fuller,” he said bluntly. “Now, _don’t_, for pity’s sake, talk _business_ to me. I really don’t understand a thing about it. I presume that girl who passed us just now--Clayton is her name?--may possess all the business acumen needed. I haven’t _her_ experience.” And Frank Barton, startled, wondered why Helen Fuller had taken the trouble to slur Ethel Clayton. The Fuller house, built on the exodus of the family from Burnaby Street, was just the dwelling one knowing Grandon Fuller and his wife would expect it to be. It was very large and very important looking, with a lot of gingerbread trimming about the eaves and veranda roof and the porte-cochère.