tting-room, while her
father and Frank smoked and talked together in a quiet corner of the
hall. Mr. Walkingshaw was radiant with the reflection of the happiness
he had brought about. He could do nothing but make little plans for
introducing Lucas to his picture-buying acquaintances, select eligible
districts of London for their residence, and jot down various articles
of furniture or ornament that he could spare them from his own mansion.
Frank seemed equally delighted, though his good spirits were
occasionally interrupted by fits of reverie.

"Somehow or other," said Mr. Walkingshaw, "I feel more and more like a
friend of Jean and you, and less and less like your father. Odd thing,
isn't it, Frank?"

"A jolly fine thing," said Frank warmly. "By Jove, sir, I can't tell you
how much I prefer it!"

"Do you really? Well, then, I won't worry about the feeling any more."

Mr. Walkingshaw had not given the impression that he was worrying about
that or any other feeling, but one was bound to take his word for it.

"I enjoy the sensation far more myself," he went on. "It produces a kind
of mutual confidence and that sort of thing. I hardly feel inclined to
explain the cause of this improvement yet, Frank; but you may take my
word that there is nothing in the least discreditable about it. In fact,
when one comes to think of it, there's nothing so very extraordinary
either. It's a perfectly sound scientific idea, perfectly sound; so you
can make your mind at ease too, Frank."

As a matter of fact, Frank's mind had already wandered far afield from
these interesting but slightly obscure speculations.

"Oh, that's all right, I assure you," he answered vaguely.

"It's a grand thing to know that Jean's love affair has turned out so
happily," his father continued. "I can't tell you what a satisfaction it
is to me."

"Yes, isn't it?" Frank murmured from the clouds.

"I only wish I could feel as sure of Andrew falling on his feet."

Frank's wits were wide awake now.

"Andrew!" he exclaimed. "Good heavens, do you mean to say you don't
think he has fallen on his feet?"

His father shook his head dubiously.

"But, my dear father, I thought you agreed with me--agreed with all of
us, I mean--that Ellen's just the--well, the--er--the--er--the nicest
girl in the world."

"Oh, she's all that."

"Then what on earth do you mean?"

Mr. Walkingshaw leant confidentially over the arm of his easy-chair.

"Between ourselves, Fran