But Oliver was not discussing questions of ethics; he was examining sets of tinted _crêpe de chine lingerie_, and hand-woven hose of spun silk. There were boxes upon boxes, and bureau drawers and closet shelves already filled up with hand-embroidered and lace-trimmed creations—chemises and corset-covers, night-robes of “handkerchief linen” lawn, lace handkerchiefs and veils, corsets of French _coutil_, dressing-jackets of pale-coloured silks, and negligées of soft _batistes_, trimmed with Valenciennes lace, or even with fur. “You must have put in a full day,” he said. “I never looked at so many things in my life,” said Alice. “And Mr. Mann never stopped to ask the price of a thing.” “I didn’t think to tell him to,” said Oliver, laughing. Then the girl went in to dress—and Oliver faced about to find his brother sitting and staring hard at him. “Tell me!” Montague exclaimed. “In God’s name, what is all this to cost?” “I don’t know,” said Oliver, impassively. “I haven’t seen the bills. It’ll be fifteen or twenty thousand, I guess.” Montague’s hands clenched involuntarily, and he sat rigid. “How long will it all last her?” he asked. “Why,” said the other, “when she gets enough, it’ll last her until spring, of course—unless she goes South during the winter.” “How much is it going to take to dress her for a year?” “I suppose thirty or forty thousand,” was the reply. “I don’t expect to keep count.” Montague sat in silence. “You don’t want to shut her up and keep her at home, do you?” inquired his brother, at last. “Do you mean that other women spend that much on clothes?” he demanded. “Of course,” said Oliver, “hundreds of them. Some spend fifty thousand—I know several who go over a hundred.” “It’s monstrous!” Montague exclaimed. “Fiddlesticks!” was the other’s response. “Why, thousands of people live by it—wouldn’t know anything else to do.” Montague said nothing to that. “Can you afford to have Alice compete with such women indefinitely?” he asked. “I have no idea of her doing it indefinitely,” was Oliver’s reply. “I simply propose to give her a chance. When she’s married, her bills will be paid by her husband.” “Oh,” said the other, “then this layout is just for her to be exhibited in.” “You may say that,” answered Oliver,—“if you want to be foolish. You know perfectly well that parents who launch their daughters in Society don’t figure on keeping up the pace all their lifetimes.” “We hadn’t thought of marrying Alice off,” said Montague. To which his brother replied that the best physicians left all they could to nature. “Suppose,” said he, “that we just introduce her in the right set, and turn her loose and let her enjoy herself—and then cross the next bridge when we come to it?” Montague sat with knitted brows, pondering. He was beginning to see a little daylight now. “Oliver,” he asked suddenly, “are you sure the stakes in this game aren’t too big?” “How do you mean?” asked the other.