myself as usual, when I interview Mr. Hilary. Perhaps _he_ isn't
a gentleman, either. There's some consolation in that. I should like to
write an article some day on business methods and their compatibility
with self-respect. But Mr. Ricker wouldn't print it."

"He's very kind to you, Brice."

"Yes, he's as kind as he dares to be. He's the oasis in the desert of my
life; but the counting-room simoom comes along and dries him up, every
now and then. Suppose I began my article by a study of the counting-room
in independent journalism?"

Mrs. Maxwell had nothing to say to this suggestion, but much concerning
the necessity of wearing the neck-muffler, which she found her son had
not had on all day. She put it on for him now, and made him promise to
put it on for himself when he left the house where he was going to call.

The man who came to the door told him that Mr. Hilary was not at home,
but was expected shortly, and consented to let him come in and wait. He
tried to classify Maxwell in deciding where to let him wait; his coat
and hat looked like a chair in the hall; his pale, refined, rather
haughty face, like the drawing-room. The man compromised on the library,
and led him in there.

Louise rose upright on the lounge, where she had thrown herself, after
dinner, to rest, in the dim light, and think over the day's strange
experience, and stared at him helplessly. For her greater ease and
comfort, she had pushed off her shoes, and they had gone over
the foot of the lounge. She found herself confronted with the
contumacious-looking workman she had noticed at the station in Hatboro',
with those thin, mocking lips, and the large, dreamy eyes that she
remembered.

The serving-man said, "Oh, I didn't know you were here, Miss," and stood
irresolute. "The gentleman wishes to see your father."

"Will you sit down?" she said to Maxwell. "My father will be in very
soon, I think." She began to wonder whether she could edge along
unobserved to where her shoes lay, and slip her feet into them. But for
the present she remained where she was, and not merely because her shoes
were off and she could not well get away, but because it was not in her
nature not to wish every one to be happy and comfortable. She was as far
as any woman can be from coquetry, but she could not see any manner of
man without trying to please him. "I'm sorry he's isn't here," she said,
and then, as there seemed nothing for him to answer, she ventured, "It'