I was lunching at the Ritz with Curtis Spencer, and I looked
forward to the delight he would take in my story of the Farrells.
He would probably want to write it. He was my junior, but my great
friend; and as a novelist his popularity was where five years
earlier mine had been. But he belonged to the new school. His
novels smelled like a beauty parlor; and his heroines, while always
beautiful, were, on occasions, virtuous, but only when they thought
it would pay.

Spencer himself was as modern as his novels, and I was confident
his view of my adventure would be that of the great world which he
described so accurately.

But to my amazement when I had finished he savagely attacked me.

"You idiot!" he roared. "Are you trying to tell me you refused five
million dollars-- just because you didn't like the people who
wanted to force it on you? Where," he demanded, "is Cape May? We'll
follow them now! We'll close this deal before they can change their
minds. I'll make you sign to-night. And, then," he continued
eagerly, "we'll take their yacht and escape to Newport, and you'll
lend me five thousand dollars, and pay my debts, and give me back
the ten you borrowed. And you might buy me a touring-car and some
polo ponies and--and--oh, lots of things. I'll think of them as we
go along. Meanwhile, I can't afford to give luncheons to
millionaires, so you sign for this one; and then we'll start for
Cape May."

"Are you mad?" I demanded; "do you think I'd sell my honor!"