“It doesn't make any difference,” she told her husband, “whether he really is a genius or whether he isn't. We have said he is and now we must keep on saying it. And if he can't earn his salt by his writings--which he probably can't--then you must fix it in some way so that he can make-believe earn it by something else. He is engaged to Madeline, and we have told every one that he is, so he will have to marry her; at least, I see no way to prevent it.” “Humph!” grunted Fosdick. “And after that I'll have to support them, I suppose.” “Probably--unless you want your only child to starve.” “Well, I must say, Henrietta--” “You needn't, for there is nothing more TO say. We're in it and, whether we like it or not, we must make the best of it. To do anything now except appear joyful about it would be to make ourselves perfectly ridiculous. We can't do that, and you know it.” Her husband still looked everything but contented. “So far as the young fellow himself goes,” he said, “I like him, rather. I've talked with him only once, of course, and then he and I weren't agreeing exactly. But I liked him, nevertheless. If he were anything but a fool poet I should be more reconciled.” He was snubbed immediately. “THAT,” declared Mrs. Fosdick, with decision, “is the only thing that makes him possible.” So Mrs. Fosdick's welcome was whole-handed if not whole-hearted. And her husband's also was cordial and intimate. The only member of the Fosdick household who did not regard the guest with favor was Googoo. That aristocratic bull-pup was still irreconcilably hostile. When Albert attempted to pet him he appeared to be planning to devour the caressing hand, and when rebuked by his mistress retired beneath a davenport, growling ominously. Even when ignominiously expelled from the room he growled and cast longing backward glances at the Speranza ankles. No, Googoo did not dissemble; Albert was perfectly sure of his standing in Googoo's estimation. Dinner that evening was a trifle more formal than he had expected, and he was obliged to apologize for the limitations of his wardrobe. His dress suit of former days he had found much too dilapidated for use. Besides, he had outgrown it. “I thought I was thinner,” he said, “and I think I am. But I must have broadened a bit. At any rate, all the coats I left behind won't do at all. I shall have to do what Captain Snow, my grandfather, calls 'refit' here in New York. In a day or two I hope to be more presentable.” Mrs. Fosdick assured him that it was quite all right, really. Madeline asked why he didn't wear his uniform. “I was dying to see you in it,” she said. “Just think, I never have.” Albert laughed. “You have been spared,” he told her. “Mine was not a triumph, so far as fit was concerned. Of course, I had a complete new rig when I came out of the hospital, but even that was not beautiful. It puckered where it should have bulged and bulged where it should have been smooth.”