"Perhaps you're right, Miss Neal," said Hal, a little startled by the
acuteness of her judgment, and a little piqued as well. "Though you
condemn me to a life of uselessness on scant evidence."

She went scarlet. "Oh, please! You know I didn't mean that. But you seem
too--too easy-going, too--"

"Too ornamental to be useful?"

Suddenly she stamped her foot at him, flaming into a swift exasperation.
"You're laughing at me!" she accused. "I'm going back to my work. I
won't stay and be made fun of." Then, in another and rather a dismayed
tone, "Oh, I'm forgetting about your being the Chief's son."

Hal jumped to his feet. "Please promise to forget it when next we meet,"
he besought her with winning courtesy. "You've been a kind little friend
and adviser. And I thank you for what you have said."

"Not at all," she returned lamely, and walked away, her face still
crimson.

Returning to the executive suite, the young scion found his father
immersed in technicalities of copy with the second advertising writer.

"Sit down, Boyee," said he. "I'll be through in a few minutes." And he
resumed his discussion of "black-face," "36-point," "indents," "boxes,"
and so on.

Left to his own devices Hal turned idly to the long table. From the
newspaper which the Reverend Norman Hale had left, there glared up at