"I don't care, dear. Philip, you must remember that when you got that last check from mother, it was on your distinct promise that you would not see your father again for a year." "And don't you remember," retorted Philip, "that I afterwards, upon reflection, distinctly withdrew that distinct promise as utterly and in essence unfilial? A woman can always remember more things than a man has forgotten, and forget whatever she doesn't want to remember. If it had been an honest woman instead of an honest man that Diogenes was looking for, he'd have had to throw away his lantern and hire a portable lighthouse." But he kissed the girl as he said this, and pressed his mother's hand. "The trouble with you two," he declared, "is that you don't get about enough. Seclusion makes you serious." "I wish," said Mrs. Chamberlin, "that you had brought me back the news that you had grown more like us." "More serious? Still harping on your son, dear! No, I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I've about given up all hope of marrying money, and marrying anything else is an impossibility. I must be getting on in years. You know how it is: as we grow older we become more particular and less desirable--when we're old enough to have learned properly to play the game of love, we're too old to play it." "You're a mere boy," observed Madelaine, with a toss of her blonde curls. "And you talk like one," said Mrs. Chamberlin, smiling in spite of herself. "I'd never think of accepting anybody so young as you are," the girl added. Philip pulled her pink ear. "That's right, Queen Mab," he agreed; "wait till a man is large and round and settled. And when you do marry, marry for keeps: a little marriage is a dangerous thing, eh, _Mutter_?" "Philip!" What more she would have said to this criticism of her own estate, Mrs. Chamberlin's son was not just then to hear, for a Japanese gong interrupted her with the melodious announcement of dinner, and the son snatched his protesting mother in his arms and, with Madelaine following, bore her into the brightly lighted dining-room. He looked at the shining silver and gleaming linen and glass and china, and he saw the pale liquid that filled one of the glasses at his own accustomed place. "Good!" he cried. "I hope Lena's hand has not forgotten its cunning. Stolen waters are sweet, but the best cocktail is a dry one." And then, with his living burden still in his strong arms, he looked across the table and into the eyes of the new servant.