here just as soon as things are settled up. I've been talking with a
fellow here--Lawyer Hansall; he says he'll take me in and give me a
chance. No more barberin' for me, you hear me!"

"'Tis a poor business, but a necessary," remarked Haney.

Bertha was sympathetic. "I'm glad you're goin' to get a raise. Of
course, I'm sorry about your father."

"I understand--so am I. But he's gone, and it's up to me to think of
myself. I know you always despised my trade."

"No, I didn't. Men have to be shaved and clipped. It's like
dish-washin', somebody has to do it. We can't all sit in the parlor."

Winchell acknowledged the force of this. "Well, I always felt sneakin'
about it, I'll admit, but that was because I was raised a farmer, and
barbers were always cheap skates with us. We didn't use 'em much, in
fact. Well, it's all up now, and when I come back I want you to forget I
ever cut hair. A third of the old farm is mine, and that will pay my
board while I study."

Neither Haney nor his young wife was surprised by this movement on his
part any more than he was surprised at their rise to wealth and luxury;
both were in accordance with the American tradition. But as they rode
down the street certain scornful Easterners (schooled in European
conventions) smiled to see the wife of an Irish millionaire gambler in
earnest conversation with a barber.

Mrs. Crego, driving down-town with Mrs. Congdon, stared in astonishment,
then turned to Lee. "And you ask me to meet such a woman at dinner!" she
exclaimed, and her tone expressed a kind of bewilderment.

Lee laughed. "You can't fail me now. Don't be hasty. Trust in Frank."

"I'd hate to have my dinner partners selected by Frank Congdon. I draw
the line at barbers."

"You're a snob, Helen. If you were really as narrow as you sound I'd cut
you dead! Furthermore, the barber isn't invited."

"I can't understand such people."

"I can. She don't know any better. You impute a low motive where there
is nothing worse than ignorance. As Frank says, the girl is a perfectly
natural outgrowth of a little town. I hope our dinner won't spoil her."

Mrs. Congdon had put the dinner-hour early, and when the Haneys drove up
in their glittering new carriage, drawn by two splendid black horses,
she too had a moment of bewilderment, but her sense of humor prevailed.
"Frank," she said, "you can't patronize a turnout like that--not in my
presence."

"To-night art's name is mud," he replied, with