ountry on earth. My name's Todhunter
Chase--'Tod' for short you know. Everyone calls me Tod. It's hard to be
dignified with such a name, ain't it?"

Suddenly the girl caught sight of her painting which, hurled a dozen
paces away, was lying face down in the dust.

"Oh, my picture!" she exclaimed anxiously. "I do hope it's not damaged!"

She started forward to pick it up, but Tod, by a quick jump, got there
before her.

"No damage done!" he cried triumphantly. With a careless laugh he added:
"Anyhow, it's only a picture."

"Only a picture!" she exclaimed indignantly as she clasped the precious
canvas to her breast. "Don't you love what is your own? I've worked six
long months over it. I wouldn't have anything happen to it for anything
in the world. Don't you like pictures?"

He gave a broad grin as he answered:

"Pictures? I'm crazy for 'em--especially the kind engraved on a $500
U. S. Treasury note. I'm perfectly dippy over those."

"Dippy? What's that?" she asked, puzzled.

"Oh--you're not familiar with Broadway slang, are you? Well--'dippy' is
most expressive and up to date. It means that one's joy over a certain
thing is so keen that the mental faculties are put temporarily out of
gear."

She laughed heartily. He was certainly droll, this American. He made her
laugh and that in itself was a novel sensation. As she packed up her
things, she asked:

"What is your life work?"

"My what?" he gasped.

"Your work. What is your occupation?"

"Oh, you mean what I do for a living?" Puffing out his chest he went on
proudly: "I'm in the automobile business, and I'm a cracker jack at it,
too. Only been in it a month, but I guess I've made good all right."

She smiled at his unblushing self-conceit.

"Only been at it a month?" she echoed. "Why, what did you do before
that?"

The question seemed to embarrass him.

"Oh, I worked hard enough," he replied carelessly. "I got up at noon,
had breakfast, played golf or took a spin in the machine, ran in to the
club, dressed for dinner, ate, went to a show, back to clubs, played
poker till three A. M., back home. Same old thing week in, week out, all
through the season. Isn't that hard work?"

"Hard work--yes," she answered quietly. "I should think that very hard
work if I had to do it. But I don't think it is exactly the kind of work
a self-respecting man should do." Looking him straight in the face, she
added: "At least, not the kind of man I would care to know--