It was ten o'clock in the morning when Martin brought his car to a
stop and looked up at the heavy Gothic decorations of a pompous
house in East Fifty-fifth Street. "Is this it?"

"Yes," said Joan, getting out of the leather-lined coat that he had
wrapped her in. "It really is a house, isn't it; and luckily, all
the gargoyles are on the outside." She held out her hand and gave
Martin the sort of smile for which any genuine man would sell his
soul. "Marty," she added, "you've been far more than a brother to
me. You've been a cousin. I shall never be able to thank you. And I
adored the drive with our noses turned to the city. I shan't be able
to be seen on the streets until I've got some frocks, so please come
and see me every day. As soon as Alice has got over her shock at the
sight of me, I'm going to compose an historical letter to
Grandmother."

"Let her down lightly," said Martin, climbing out with the suit-
case. "You've won."

"Yes, that's true; but I shouldn't be a woman if I didn't get in the
last word."

"You're not a woman," said Martin. "You're a kid, and you're in New
York, and you're light-headed; so look out."

Joan laughed at his sudden gravity and ran up the wide steps and put
her finger on the bell. "I've written down your telephone number,"
she said, "and memorized your address. I'll call you up at three
o'clock this afternoon, and if you've nothing else to do, you may