The startled benefactor looked doubtfully from her to the young man. "And you?" "Oh, I?" shrugged De Presle-Vaulx, "I'm already half cowboy!" Mary Falconer put her arm round Molly's waist, drew her to her, "and Molly is more than half Marquise." "Mr. Bulstrode," again cried the girl impetuously. "_Please_ reason with him! He's horribly obstinate. You have put this dreadful idea in his head; now please tell him how _ridiculous_ it is. If he goes West and spoils his career and breaks with his family, I'll never marry him! As it is, I will wait for ever!" "But my dear child!" Mary Falconer was determined to have the whole thing out before them, "you don't seem to get it into your head that you have neither of you a sou, and Maurice can never earn any money in France." Miss Malines, to whom money meant that she drew on her father, the extravagant stockbroker whose seat even in the Stock Exchange was mortgaged, and who had not ten thousand dollars' capital in the world--lost countenance here at the cruel and vulgar introduction of the commodity on which life turns. She sighed, her lips trembled, and she capitulated: "Oh, if that's really true ... as I suppose it is----" Bulstrode watched her, she had grown pale--she drew a deep breath, and, looking up, not at her lover, but at the elder man, said softly: "Why, I guess I'll have to give him quite up then." But here De Presle-Vaulx made an exclamation, and before them all took Molly in his arms: "No," he said tenderly, "never, never! _That_ the last of all! Mr. Bulstrode is right. I must work for you, and I will. We'll both go West together. Couldn't you? Wouldn't you come with me?" ... "And your mother?" asked the girl. "Nothing--" De Presle-Vaulx whispered, "nothing, counts but _you_." Over their heads Bulstrode met his friend's eye, and in his were--he could not help it--triumph, keen delight, and in hers there was anger at him and tears. At this moment the waiter put his head in at the door and implored Monsieur to come down if he wanted the seat in the window. "Oh, we're coming!" Mrs. Falconer cried impatiently. "Molly, there's some eau-de-cologne on the table. Put it on your eyes. Don't be long or we'll lose our place. The West will keep!" She went out of the door and Bulstrode followed her. In the hall she said tartly: "Well, I hope you're satisfied! I never saw a more perfect inquisitor. Why didn't you live at the time of the Spanish persecution?" He ignored her scathing question: "I am satisfied," he said happily, "with both of them; they're bricks." The lady made no reply as she rustled along by his side to the elevator. From the floors below came the clear, bright sound of the Hungarian music in an American cake-walk and the odor of cigars and wines and the distinct suggestion of good things to eat came tempting their nostrils. As Bulstrode followed the brilliant woman, a sense of defeat came over him and with less conviction he repeated: