ise immediately, with the kite-like
adaptability of the American woman for high altitudes, and the leaden
weight of the husband at the end of the tail was as nothing to her. She
had begun it all by the study of people in hotels while Mr. Flint was
closeted with officials and directors. By dint of minute observation and
reasoning powers and unflagging determination she passed rapidly through
several strata, and had made a country place out of her husband's farm
in Tunbridge, so happily and conveniently situated near Leith. In winter
they lived on Fifth Avenue.

One daughter alone had halted, for a minute period, this progress,
and this daughter was Victoria--named by her mother. Victoria was now
twenty-one, and was not only of another generation, but might almost
have been judged of another race than her parents. The things for which
her mother had striven she took for granted, and thought of them not at
all, and she had by nature that simplicity and astonishing frankness of
manner and speech which was once believed to be an exclusive privilege
of duchesses.

To return to Fairview. Victoria, after sharing her five o'clock luncheon
with her dogs, went to seek her father, for the purpose (if it must
be told) of asking him for a cheque. Mr. Flint was at Fairview on the
average of two days out of the week during the summer, and then he was
nearly always closeted with a secretary and two stenographers and a
long-distance telephone in two plain little rooms at the back of the
house. And Mr. Hilary Vane was often in consultation with him, as he was
on the present occasion when Victoria flung open the door. At sight of
Mr. Vane she halted suddenly on the threshold, and a gleam of mischief
came into her eye as she thrust her hand into her coat pocket. The two
regarded her with the detached air of men whose thread of thought has
been broken.

"Well, Victoria," said her father, kindly if resignedly, "what is it
now?"

"Money," replied Victoria, promptly; "I went to Avalon this morning and
bought that horse you said I might have."

"What horse?" asked Mr. Flint, vaguely. "But never mind. Tell Mr.
Freeman to make out the cheque."

Mr. Vane glanced at Mr. Flint, and his eyes twinkled. Victoria, who
had long ago discovered the secret of the Honey Dew, knew that he was
rolling it under his tongue and thinking her father a fool for his
indulgence.

"How do you do, Mr. Vane?" she said; "Austen's coming home, isn't he?"
She had g