almost pop out of my head. Then, when I was almost desperate,
Mr. Collenquest came on a visit to papa."

"I see now why you said Wall Street," I remarked.

"Mr. Collenquest is an old friend of papa's," she continued.
"They were at the same college, and both belonged to what they
call 'the wonderful old class of seventy-nine,' and there's
nothing in the world papa wouldn't do for Mr. Collenquest or Mr.
Collenquest for papa. I had never seen him before and had rather
a wild idea of him from the caricatures in the paper--you know
the kind--with dollar-signs all over his clothes and one of his
feet on the neck of Honest Toil. Well, he wasn't like that a
bit--in fact, he was more like a bishop than anything else and
the only thing he ever put his foot on was a chair when he and
papa would sit up half the night talking about the wonderful old
class of seventy-nine. Papa is rather a quiet man ordinarily,
but that week it seemed as though he'd never stop laughing; and
I'd wake up at one o'clock in the morning and hear them still at
it. Of course, they had long serious talks, too, and Mr.
Collenquest was never so like a bishop as when the conversation
turned on stocks and Wall Street. When he boomed out things like
'the increasing tendency of associated capital in this country,'
or 'the admitted financial emancipation of the Middle West,'--you
felt somehow you were a better girl for having listened to him.
What he seemed to like best--besides sitting up all night till
papa was a wreck--was to take walks. He was as bad about horses
as papa was about automobiles--and of course papa had to go, too
--and naturally I tagged after them both--and so we walked and
walked and walked.