insignificant--where women sit in the game. Fashionable or not, it is
rotten sport--whatever the ethics may be. And, Gerald, tainted sport and
a clean record can't take the same fence together."

The boy looked up, flushed and perplexed. "Why, every woman in town--"

"Oh, no. How about your sister and mine?"

"Of course not; they are different. Only--well, you approve of Rosamund
Fane and--Gladys Orchil--don't you?"

"Gerald, men don't ask each other such questions--except as you ask,
without expecting or desiring an answer from me, and merely to be saying
something nice about two pretty women."

The reproof went home, deeply, but without a pang; and the boy sat
silent, studying the blotter between his elbows.

A little later he started for home at Selwyn's advice. But the memory of
his card losses frightened him, and he stopped on the way to see what
money Austin would advance him.

Julius Neergard came up from Long Island, arriving at the office about
noon. The weather was evidently cold on Long Island; he had the
complexion of a raw ham, but the thick, fat hand, with its bitten nails,
which he offered Selwyn as he entered his office, was unpleasantly hot,
and, on the thin nose which split the broad expanse of face, a bead or
two of sweat usually glistened, winter and summer.

"Where's Gerald?" he asked as an office-boy relieved him of his heavy