"Hello!" exclaimed a voice close to his ear,--the fresh, confident voice that he knew so well. "I've been looking for you everywhere." Freddie drew up a chair and sat down at his "good side." The young man appeared to have something weighty on his mind. Brock shifted uneasily. "I want to put it up to you, Mr. Medcroft, as man to man. You are Connie's brother-in-law and you ought to be able to set me straight." "Ah, I see," said Brock vaguely. "You do?" queried the other, surprise and doubt in his face. "No, I should say I don't, don't you see," substituted Brock. "I was wondering how you _could_ have seen. It's a matter I haven't discussed with anyone. I've come to have a liking for you, Roxbury. You're my sort; you have a sort of New York feeling about you. I'm sure you're enough of a sport to give me unprejudiced advice. Hands across the sea, see? Well, to get right down to the point, old man,--you'll pardon my plain speech,--I think Constance ought to marry an American." Brock sat up very straight. "I think that's--that's a matter for Miss Fowler to determine," he said coldly. "You don't quite get my meaning," persisted Freddie, crossing his legs comfortably. "I was trying to make it easy for myself." "You mean, you think she ought to marry you?" "That's it, precisely. How clever you are." "But you are said to be engaged to Miss Rodney," ventured Brock, feeling his way. "That's just the point, Mr. Medcroft. We're not really engaged--but almost. As a matter of fact, we've got to the point where it's really up to me to speak to her father about it, don't you know. Luckily, I haven't." "Luckily?"