“Ah! Madge, my darling,” he murmured sadly. “Janet may occupy the silver frame, but not my heart. I am tempted, sorely tempted, but dollars and sense go together.” Catching up a box of cigarettes, he switched off the electric light, and entering his sitting-room, made his way to the fireplace where fresh logs were burning merrily on the hearth. He pulled up a Morris chair and warmed his hands at the blaze; then settled back and stared at his surroundings. Barnard had inherited the Georgetown property on the death of his aunts, and, not having the means to keep up the fine old mansion, and finding it impossible to rent as a residence, he had had the building remodeled and made into an apartment house. He kept one of the bachelor apartments, comprising sitting-room, bedroom, and bath, for his own use. The two rooms were large and airy, and the handsome antique furniture, also an inheritance with the house, did not look amiss in their familiar setting. Chichester Barnard was the last of a long line of distinguished ancestors, and from his earliest youth pride of family had been drilled into him, and the often repeated refrain, “A Barnard can do no wrong,” became a fetish with him. He was as familiar with family tradition as he was ignorant of true democracy, but soon after attaining his majority he was forced to realize that past glory did not pay grocers’ bills, and that his blue blood was not a useful commodity except in drawing-rooms. The pricking of his inflated family pride brought in its train a false value of money. With money what could he not accomplish? What not buy? And the acquisition of money became his lode-star. By arduous work and much self-denial Barnard was winning a deserved reputation in his profession, but his impetuous temperament chafed at the slowness with which he accumulated money. He was constantly seeking unscrupulous get-rich-quick schemes and other short cuts to wealth, but with heart-breaking regularity they came to nothing. He had met Marjorie Langdon two years before and had fallen madly in love with her, had persuaded her to engage herself to him, and with a caution which he inwardly despised, had made her promise not to tell Madame Yvonett of their mutual attachment. He felt that if the engagement was once announced he would be irrevocably bound to marry her; he longed to marry her, but--he would not wed her while he was a poor man. He despised poverty as before he had despised low birth.