"Oh yes, he quite lets himself go now and then. He thinks the sun
rises and sets in you. He is constantly talking about your rapid rise
and keen business judgment."

"You can't mean that he's ever gone so--so far as actually to speak of
me in--in connection with his daughter?" Mostyn said, tentatively.

"I may as well tell you that he has." Saunders felt that the subject
was a delicate one. "At least, he has expressed the hope that you and
she would care for each other. He knew your father and liked him, and
he has been afraid that Miss Irene might fancy some young fellow with
no sort of chance in the world. He speaks quite freely of her as his
sole heiress, often showing me the actual figures of what he expects
to leave her."

A touch of red appeared in Mostyn's cheeks. "He is getting old and
garrulous," he said. "I really have been of some help to him. It
happens that I've never advised him wrongly in any venture he has
made, and I suppose he overrates my ability; but, really, I give you
my word that I have not thought seriously of marrying _any one_. I
suppose some men would call me a fool--a cold-blooded fellow like
Delbridge would, I am sure, but I've always had a dream of running
across my ideal somewhere and of marrying solely for the sake of old-
fashioned love itself."

"What man hasn't?" Saunders responded, thoughtfully. "After all, very
few men, at least here in the South, marry for convenience or
financial advancement. There is Stillman; he married a typewriter in
his office, a beautiful character, and they are as happy as a pair of