A week later, "_F. Payton_" had been painted on the index of the Sturtevant Building, and Arthur Weston, pausing as he got out of the elevator, glanced at the gilt letters with ironical eyes. He was about to let the panels of the revolving door push him into the street when Mr. William Childs entered and hooked an umbrella on his arm. "Hey! Weston! Most interesting thing: do you recall the twenty-third Sonnet? You don't? Begins: "'As an imperfect actor on the stage'; I've made a most interesting discovery!" His prisoner, saying despairingly, "Really?" looked for a way of escape--but the crook of the umbrella held him. "In a hurry? Hey? What? Well, I'll tell you some other time." Then the umbrella was reversed and pointed to the index. "Perfec' nonsense! What?" "Girls are very energetic nowadays," Mr. Weston murmured, rubbing his arm. "She'd better put her energy into housekeeping!" "Then Mrs. Payton would have nothing to do." "Well, then let her get married, and keep house for herself,--instead of laying down the law to her elders! She instructed me who I should vote for, if you please! Smith is her man, because he believes in woman suffrage. What do you think of that?" "I think she's a good deal like you or me, when we want a thing put through." "No such thing! Smith is the worst boss this state ever had. I told her so, and--Hey, there! Stop--I'm going up!" he called, wildly; and skipped into the elevator. "Tell her to get married!" he called down to Arthur Weston, who watched his ascending spats, and then let the revolving door urge him into the street. "There it is again," he ruminated, "'get married.' But girls don't marry for homes nowadays, my dear William. There are no more 'Clinging Vines.' Mrs. Payton is one of the last of them, and, Lord! what a blasted oak she clung to!" He had an unopened letter from Mrs. Payton in his pocket, and as he sauntered along he wondered whether, if it remained unopened for another hour or two, he could lie truthfully to her and say he had not received it "in time" to come and talk over Freddy. "For that's what she wants, of course," he thought, dolefully; "it's a nice point of conscience. I'll go and sit in the park and think it out. By the time I decide, it will be too late to go--and then I'll open the letter! Why do women who have nothing to say, always write long letters?"--he touched the envelope with an appraising thumb and finger--"eight pages, all full of Freddy's sins!"