Mr. Rene Fontaine had no fault to find with Marjorie’s supercilious airs and snobbish predelictions. He liked and admired her unreservedly and thought it quite natural that, in choosing a husband, she should prefer a titled Englishman to a Yankee commoner. Why not? That London was the real capital of American fashionable society was, after all, a fact no socially ambitious American girl could be expected to ignore. "I don’t think she ever cared for Dunbar," ventured Mr. Fontaine. "At all events, he’s gone." "Gone!" "He sailed for England yesterday. I’ve just heard it from Mr. Armstrong." "Good Lord!" exclaimed Claude, walking up and down in marked agitation. "My dear boy!" cried Mr. Fontaine, uncertain as to the cause of his son’s emotions, "she didn’t take him after all." "No. Probably she couldn’t. I dare say she means to take me, now." "Why, Claude, everybody supposed you two were as good as engaged long before this Englishman came over." "So we were—before he came." "Well?" "Well—he came." "Really, Claude—" "I mean, she preferred him to me. I don’t blame her. He had more to offer." "What had that to do with it?" "Everything. He’s a British nobleman. I’m only an ordinary American. He’s got the entree of the best London circles. I’ve only the entree of the best New York." "That’s a very unkind thing to say of Marjorie. I’ve known her since she was a baby. She has her faults. But heartless calculation is not one of them." Mr. Fontaine’s indignation did not sound convincing. Like Claude, he knew that Marjorie would not hesitate to sacrifice her feelings to her social ambitions. "I don’t say it’s a fault," protested Claude. "She had the right to change her mind. For women, the business side of marriage is the most important side, since marriage establishes them in life positions. I find it perfectly natural, therefore, that they should knock themselves down to the highest bidder." This was a sentiment he had adopted, with his own modifications, from Robert Lloyd. "Don’t be cynical, my boy," said Mr. Fontaine. "Business is business, but family life is quite another thing." "I agree with you, father," said Claude, pacifically. "As I said before, I don’t blame Marjorie. And I’m not too proud to be her second choice." "That’s the way to talk. Second choice, like second thought, is often the sounder." "Only, it happens that when _she_ changed her sentiments, _I_ changed mine, too." "You mean there’s some other girl?" "In a way—yes," replied Claude, awkwardly. Then, on the impulse of the moment, he plunged into an account of Janet Barr. *IV* Mr. Fontaine was distinctly uneasy. But he concealed his emotion as well as he could. "You haven’t any wild plan of marrying this young woman?" he said, adopting the air of a judicious outsider. "I like her better than any girl I ever met."