“I mean that Wayne and Mrs. Craighill should not see too much of each other. They are both young and foolish. The Colonel is a good deal wrapped up in himself; one roof isn’t big enough to cover an elderly husband--an important, busy man--his young wife and a youngster who’s a past-master at the business of jollying women.” “But Wayne has a sense of honour; there’s a place where he would draw the line.” The cashier brought in the bank deposit which Walsh surveyed carefully. When the man had gone he lighted a fresh cigar and when it burned to his satisfaction he laid a broad hand on Wingfield’s knee and said: “We seem to understand each other. I don’t talk much, neither do you. This is all on the dead level, is it?” “You can trust me. What we say here is strictly between ourselves.” Walsh nodded in sign that the compact was understood. “You and I can’t quarrel over Wayne’s good qualities nor over his bad ones either, for that matter. If managed right, he’d be a fine, big, manly fellow. The Colonel never knew how to handle him. We spoke of that up at Mrs. Blair’s that night. You’ve noticed that Wayne’s going to the office now and that he’s been straight ever since the Colonel got married. A change like that doesn’t just happen; you’ve got to account for it. You haven’t accounted for it, have you? Well I have! He’s got the idea that the Colonel hasn’t treated him square. The Colonel’s rubbed it into him pretty hard and often--not by roasting him and that sort of thing, but in a thousand worse ways. He’s made the mistake--and I’ll be damned if I think the Colonel knows it himself--of posing to the boy as a pattern of what _he_ ought to be. All this God-and-morality business--these speeches about the wickedness of politics in Jupiter and that kind of thing--make the boy tired. It’s worse than that: he wants to catch the Colonel napping and prove him a fraud! It’s a devilish sort of thing--you don’t like to think of it; but that’s my explanation of this sudden devotion to business. The thing’s in his eye; he’s looking for spots on the sun.” Wingfield caressed his gloves gently. Walsh smoked hard. “I don’t believe it’s in him. He’s as sweet as cream inside and wholesome and clean. The thing you suggest wouldn’t be possible in the Wayne Craighill I know,” and there was rebuke in Wingfield’s tone. “Don’t misunderstand me. I’m for the boy all the time. I wish to God he was mine! He’ll wobble right some day, but just now that’s what he’s up to. And there’s a little more at the back of my head---- Not ready yet,” he called to a clerk who had entered with a mass of correspondence. “Wait till I ring. There’s that; and that woman up at the house gives him another chance at the Colonel; I see you flinch at it, but he’s out for revenge--he’s been getting ready for it for a long time.”