“That's all right enough,” said Kedzie, “but the main question with me is How?” “How is easy,” said Mrs. Thropp, and her face seemed to turn yellow as she lowered her voice. “This Mr. Dyckman is crazy about you. He wants you. If he's willin' to marry you to get you, I guess he'll be still more willin' to get you without marryin' you.” “Why, momma!” It was just a whisper. Kedzie had lived through village perils and city perils; she had been one of a band of dancers as scant of morals as of clothes; she had drifted through all sorts of encounters with all sorts of people; but she had never heard so terrible a thought so terribly expressed. She flinched from her mother. Her mother saw that shudder of retreat and grew harsher: “You tell Mr. Dyckman about your husband, and you'll lose him. You will--for sure! If you lose him, you lose the greatest chance a girl ever had. Take him--and make him pay for you!--in advance. Do you understand? You can't get much afterward. You can get a fortune if you get your money first. Look at you, how pretty you are! He'd give you a million if you asked him. Get your money; then tell him if you want to; but don't lose this chance. Do you hear me?” “Yes,” Kedzie sighed. “Yes, momma.” “Promise me on your solemn honor!” Kedzie giggled with sheer nervousness at the phrase. But she would not promise. The door-bell rang, and the maid admitted Jim Dyckman, who had not paused to send his name up by the telephone. While he gave his hat and stick to the maid and peeled off his gloves Kedzie was whispering: “It's Jim.” Mrs. Thropp struggled to her feet. “He mustn't find me here,” she said. “Don't tell him about us.” But before she could escape Dyckman was in the doorway, almost too tall to walk through it, almost as tall as twenty million dollars. To Mrs. Thropp he was as majestic as the Colossus of Rhodes would have been. Like the Colossus of Rhodes, he was a gilded giant. CHAPTER XXXV Kedzie was paralyzed. Mrs. Thropp was inspired. Unity of purpose guided her true. She had told her daughter to ignore Gilfoyle as an unimportant detail. She certainly did not intend to substitute a couple of crude parents as a new handicap. No one knew Mrs. Thropp's cheapness of appearance better than she did. A woman may grow shoddy and careless, but she rarely grows oblivious of her uncomeliness. She will rather cherish it as the final cruelty of circumstances. Mrs. Thropp was keenly alive to the effect it would have on Dyckman if Kedzie introduced her and Adna as the encumbrances on her beauty. Adna, hearing the door-bell and Dyckman's entrance, returned to the living-room from the bathroom, where he had taken refuge. He stood in the hall now behind the puzzled Dyckman. There was a dreadful silence for a moment. Jim spoke, shyly: “Hello, Anita! How are you?” “Hello, Jim!” Kedzie stammered. “This is--”