She hesitated now, but only for an instant. She colored a little, but she answered bravely. “I suppose I do,” she said, “but what of it? It is not unheard of, is it, the taking one's prospective son-in-law into partnership?” “No, but--We're dodging the issue again, Madeline. If I were likely to be of any help to your father's business, instead of a hindrance, I might perhaps see it differently. As it is, I couldn't accept unless I were willing to be an object of charity.” “Did you tell Father that?” “Yes.” “What did he say?” “He said a good deal. He was frank enough to say that he did not expect me to be of great assistance to the firm. But I might be of SOME use--he didn't put it as baldly as that, of course--and at all times I could keep on with my writing, with my poetry, you know. The brokerage business should not interfere with my poetry, he said; your mother would scalp him if it did that.” She smiled faintly. “That sounds like dad,” she commented. “Yes. Well, we talked and argued for some time on the subject. He asked me what, supposing I did not accept this offer of his, my plans for the future might be. I told him they were pretty unsettled as yet. I meant to write, of course. Not poetry altogether. I realized, I told him, that I was not a great poet, a poet of genius.” Madeline interrupted. Her eyes flashed. “Why do you say that?” she demanded. “I have heard you say it before. That is, recently. In the old days you were as sure as I that you were a real poet, or should be some day. You never doubted it. You used to tell me so and I loved to hear you.” Albert shook his head. “I was sure of so many things then,” he said. “I must have been an insufferable kid.” She stamped her foot. “It was less than three years ago that you said it,” she declared. “You are not so frightfully ancient now. . . . Well, go on, go on. How did it end, the talk with Father, I mean?” “I told him,” he continued, “that I meant to write and to earn my living by writing. I meant to try magazine work--stories, you know--and, soon, a novel. He asked if earning enough to support a wife on would not be a long job at that time. I said I was afraid it might, but that that seemed to me my particular game, nevertheless.” She interrupted again. “Did it occur to you to question whether or not that determination of yours was quite fair to me?” she asked. “Why--why, yes, it did. And I don't know that it IS exactly fair to you. I--” “Never mind. Go on. Tell me the rest. How did it end?” “Well, it ended in a sort of flare-up. Mr. Fosdick was just a little bit sarcastic, and I expressed my feelings rather freely--too freely, I'm afraid.” “Never mind. I want to know what you said.”