son of the well-known David Marshall, of Lake Street, recently returned
from a long course of travel and study abroad"--she seemed to be quoting
from the printed column--"_can_. Especially when assisted by his sister,
the clever and intellectual Miss Jane Marshall, who--"

"Oh, bother this bang!" exclaimed Miss Jane Marshall, pettishly. She
threw her comb down between pin-cushion and cologne bottle, and flattened
a frowning and protesting glance against her mirror. "I guess I'll give
up trying to be beautiful, and just be quaint."

David Marshall received his son with less exaltation. He had a vivid
recollection of the liberal letter of credit which had started the young
man on his way, and this recollection had subsequently been touched up
and heightened by the payment of many drafts for varying but considerable
amounts; and he was now concerning himself with the practical question,
What have I got for my money? He felt his own share in the evolution
of this brilliant and cultured youth, whose corona of accomplishments
might well dazzle and even abash a plain business person; and he awaited
with interest a response to the reasonable interrogation, to what end
shall all these means be turned? He received his son with a dry and
cautious kindness, determined not to be too precipitate in ascertaining
the young man's ideas as to the future--a week more or less could make no
great difference now.

David Marshall was a tall, spare man whose slow composure of carriage
invested him with a sort of homely dignity. He wore a reddish beard, now
largely touched with white--a mixture whose effect prompted the
suggestion that his grandfather might have been a Scotchman; and the look
from his blue eyes (though now no longer at their brightest) convinced
you that his sight was competent to cover the field of vision to which he