“That isn’t true,” Elinor flared. “It’s the girls who run after him. Why, you’d be surprised if you only knew how many women in our own set write to him.” “Yes,” Howard sneered, “and I suppose he tells you about them, or probably shows you their letters. That ought to show you just what kind of a fellow he is.” “At any rate,” she assured him, “I’d be willing to wager you one thing. He’d prove a better friend than you are. He wouldn’t knock you—behind your back.” “I didn’t mean to knock him.” Her brother hastened to vindicate himself, “and I wouldn’t to anyone else; but you’re my sister, and it’s my duty to warn you.” Elinor smiled as she replied with sarcasm: “This sudden splurge of brotherly devotion is really touching, Howard. It’s a pity you developed it so late in life.” “It’s true we’ve never been very close to one another since we were kids, but just the same,” he frowned, “I’ll not stand for any fellow making a fool of you.” “Don’t worry about me, old dear! I’m quite capable of taking care of myself any old time!” “All right, have it your own way!” was the brother’s retort, settling down behind his paper with an apparent indifference as though he had lost all interest and was dismissing the subject. “But,” and he peered over the sheet he turned to favor her with a brotherly frown as he shot out his advice. “But when something happens to you, remember I warned you, and—Watch Your Step!” “Oh, mind your own business!” snapped Elinor, as she threw her wrap about her and hurried away. She was furiously angry, as she thought about Howard’s nerve, as she termed it, for daring to attempt to interfere with her. Now, she supposed, he was going to try to enact the rôle of the protecting brother and make things more difficult for her than ever. She just wouldn’t have it! The hot tears gushed to her eyes. Things in her home were disagreeable enough without having this new discordant element to contend with. Templeton must marry her soon and take her away from it all. She would speak to him this very night! CHAPTER XII In classifying Howard Benton as a ne’er-do-well his father had not been altogether right. So much of the young man’s training was responsible for the recklessness which was making his name a by-word even among his own sort, accustomed as they were themselves to _outré_ performances. Nor was his unwillingness to work congenital, but only that he had been led to believe that the son of his father—the son of Hugh Benton, Wall Street magnate—was expected to lead an idle life. What was the good of so much money if it was not to be spent?