"Cut it out, old man," interrupted Arkwright. "No stump speeches
here. They don't go. They bore people and create an impression
that you're both ridiculous and hypocritical."

Arkwright left Josh with Towler's daughter, Mrs. Raymond, who was
by no means the horror Arkwright's language of fashionable
exaggeration had pictured, and who endured Craig's sophomoric
eulogies of "your great and revered father," because the eulogist
was young and handsome, and obviously anxious to please her. As
Arkwright passed along the edge of the dancers a fan reached out
and touched him on the arm. He halted, faced the double line of
women, mostly elderly, seated on the palm-roofed dais extending
the length of that end of the ballroom.

"Hel-LO!" called he. "Just the person I was looking for. How is
Margaret this evening?"

"As you see," replied the girl, unfurling the long fan of eagle
plumes with which she had tapped him. "Sit down.... Jackie"--this
to a rosy, eager-faced youth beside her--"run away and amuse
yourself. I want to talk seriously to this elderly person."

"I'm only seven years older than you," said Arkwright, as he
seated himself where Jackie had been vainly endeavoring to induce
Miss Severence to take him seriously.

"And I am twenty-eight, and have to admit to twenty-four," said
Margaret.