ted him at once on the strength of
sweet chocolate, and an adorable doll.

"What are they saying?" whispered Aunt Claudia, still tense in the
middle of the room.

"Hush," Becky waved a warning hand.

"There is," said the Judge, in a declamatory manner, "everything in a
name. The Bannisters of Huntersfield, the Paines of King's Crest, the
Randolphs of Cloverdale, do you think these things don't count,
Truxton?"

"I think there's a lot of rot in it," said young Beaufort, "when we
were fighting for democracy over there----"

The shot told. "Democracy has nothing to do with it----"

"Democracy," said Truxton, "has a great deal to do with it. The days
of kings and queens are dead, they have married each other for
generations and have produced offspring like--William of Germany.
Class assumptions of superiority are withered branches on the tree of
civilization. Mary is as good as I am any day."

"You wrote things like this," said the Judge, interested in spite of
himself, and loving argument.

"I wrote them because I believed them. I am ready to apologize for not
telling you of my marriage before this. I have no apologies to make
for my wife----

"I have no apologies to make for my wife," Truxton repeated. "I fought
for democratic ideals. I am practising them. Mary is a lady. You
must admit that, Grandfather."

"I do admit it," said the Judge slowly, "in the sense that you mean it.
But in the county sense? Do you think the Merriweathers will ask her
to their ball? Do you think Bob Flippin will dine with my friends
to-night?"

"I don't think he will expect to dine with you, Grandfather. I think
if you ask him, he will refuse. But if you take your friendship from
him it will break his heart----"

"Who said I would take my friendship away from Bob Flippin?"

"He is afraid--you may----"

"Because you married Mary?"

"Yes."

The Judge was breathing hard. "Whom does he think I'd go fishing with?"

"Do you think he'll want to go fishing with you if you cast off Mary?"

The Judge had a vision of life without Bob Flippin. On sunshiny days
there would be no one to cut bait for him, no one to laugh with him at
the dogs as they sat waiting for their corn-cakes, no one to listen
with flattering attention to his old, old tales.

It had not occurred to him that Bob Flippin, too, might have his pride.

He sat down heavily in a porch chair.

"Go and get Mary," he exploded; "bring her here. The thin