“Do you think so? Possibly! I am wondering, Miss Barrington, if we might not find it cooler over there by the window. Will you allow me to escort you?” “Perhaps we might,” she smilingly assented. “Perhaps we could find some subject of conversation other than Hustler Joe’s generosity to Pedler Jim, too—we might try!” She threw him a merry glance, which he answered with a shrug of his shoulders. “Indeed, Miss Barrington, you quite overestimate anything I may have had to do in the matter. It was entirely Pedler Jim’s idea. How about the reading-room?” he suddenly asked, mentioning Miss Barrington’s latest gift to the miners, “and the kindergarten class, and the——” “Ah—please!” interrupted the girl, with hand upraised in laughing protest. “I acknowledge myself vanquished at my own game. I’ll talk about—the weather, now, if you like,” she finished dutifully. Westbrook laughed, but before he could reply Miss Barrington was claimed by a tall young fellow for the next dance. “I wonder,” he mused as he saw them glide gracefully into the waltz—“I wonder if dancing belongs to those things one never forgets. I’ll have to brush up my old steps—and learn some new ones,” he added, after a pause. From the night of the Charity Ball the world appeared in new colors for Westbrook. He did not stop to question the cause of all this change. If wealth were lifting her disguise and showing a glimpse of peace, he was too rejoiced to care to ask the reason. “I wish you’d come up to the house some time,” said John Barrington to Westbrook one evening soon after the Charity Ball. “I’d like to talk with you—we can’t make any headway in this infernal racket!”—the “infernal racket” in question being the high C’s and low G’s of some world-famous singers at a particularly exclusive musical. Westbrook smiled. “Thank you; I should be only too happy.” “Then call it tomorrow night—to dinner. Seven o’clock.” “I will—and thank you,” said Westbrook after a momentary hesitation. To his daughter John Barrington said a little later: “Oh, I’ve invited Mr. Westbrook up to dinner tomorrow night.” “Mr. Westbrook!” “Why, yes—why not? You seem surprised.” “Gilding does count, doesn’t it, father dear?” “Eh? Gilding? My dear, I don’t know what you mean. I know he’s rich as mud—if that’s what you’re talking about; but he’s got more than money—he’s got brains. He knows as much about mines as I do! I like him—he’s worth a dozen of the youths that usually flutter about you.” “Perhaps he is,” laughed Ethel, the color in her cheeks deepening. That was but the first of many visits. Barrington was urgent, Ethel charmingly cordial—and Westbrook, nothing loth. XII “I’m in search of a good lawyer,” said Westbrook to John Barrington one day. “Can you recommend one to me?” “Indeed I can. I have in mind the very man—he’s been doing a little work for me, and he is very highly spoken of.” “That sounds about O. K. Who is he?”