“You will do nothing of the sort. But I am sorry that you have lost a hand, and I’ll not deny that you look well in your uniform. I don’t take much stock in uniforms, but I don’t wonder that the girls like to look at you.” Marvin lifted his military cap and settled it on his head. “What you say concerning your country’s uniform is of small weight. Open the door for it.” Asher Ferry turned to summon his butler. “Take your hand off that button!” Asher did so. Once off the steps, Marvin started for the iron gates. But his heart was thumping so hard that he had to sit down on a carved bench in the midst of ghostly bushes. As he sat there, a car from the house passed him. It was slipping away through the night with a note addressed to Chase Mahan, Esq. The note was brought to that person in his study, and read as follows: Sir: I guess your son is about as bad as you are. He has been to my house this evening. He says he is going to ask my daughter to marry him. That won’t do. Yours truly, Asher Ferry. The reader’s brows drew together, and the long smooth central portion of his countenance settled back within the muscles of his jaw, leaving the lips undisturbed. He came and laid the note in the hand of his wife, who read it with quiet eyes. “It is not pleasant, but it was what we had to expect.” “What are we going to do about it?” “Dearest, I want you to put Asher Ferry under such obligations that he can’t refuse to let his daughter marry our boy.” “Does she want to marry him?” “I don’t know. That’s Marvin’s business.” Chase walked round to the other side of the table and sat down. “Asher Ferry is worth fifty times as much money as I am. How can I put such a man under obligations?” “Perhaps you can’t. I’ve seen you accomplish things as if by white magic, but you’re no match for Asher Ferry.” Chase snorted. “He’s a damned poltroon.” “That’s forcible, dear, but I never heard you speak of iron ore so carelessly.” “Helen, that man is magnetite, or he could never hold thirty thousand men together. But there’s a yellow streak in him. There’s phosphorus in him, and titanium. If it weren’t for that, he’d be a great idealist.” “I’m sure that’s a nice analysis. Now just go into your study and think up some way of turning his yellow streak into idealism. I’ve heard you say that phosphorus is just the thing for third rails, and that titanium prevents train wrecks, and I certainly wish to prevent wrecking our boy’s life. When you hear me sing something, come in and speak to Marvin. By that time you’ll have a plan.” Chase obeyed. About eleven o’clock he heard her begin to play the musical setting of Lamartine’s poem, Jocelyn. Then arose the subtly comforting words of the refugee mother to her child. He came to the door of the study and looked. Marvin had come in, and was leaning on the piano, pale and grave.