nks, Mort," returned the colonel gratefully. "However, it is not
necessary to display the fact to the entire gathering that I now have a
pair of those deuces."

Washer quickly reached over, snatched the colonel's cards, replaced
them with his own and went on dealing.

"I think we can handle it all among us, Johnny," figured Courtney.

Shortly afterward, Loring, in high glee, separated Polly from a
hilarious game of drop-the-handkerchief.

"Well, Polly, it's all over!" he exulted. "Johnny has been in to see
his financial backers. He has bought the Wobbles property and he has
made his million dollars."

"If Mr. Courtney hasn't any fireworks he must telephone for some right
away," declared Polly in delight, and suddenly her eyes moistened. "I'm
as dippy about Johnny as his own mother!" she added.

"And in just the same way," returned Loring, secretly glad to recognize
that fact. "When you can spare a little time for it, Polly, you might
become dippy about me."

"I am," she acknowledged, putting her hand upon his arm affectionately.

"But you don't want to marry me," protested Loring, a trace of pain
contracting his brows. "I need you, Polly!"

"Please don't, Ashley," she begged. "It's a for-sure fact that I'm
never going to forget poor Billy. Don't let that stop us being pals,
though, please!"

"Certainly not," agreed Loring, with as much cheerfulness as she could
have wished, and burying deeply for the last time the hope that he had
cherished.

"Look here, Loring," charged Val Russel, striding over with Mrs.
Follison; "you'll kindly come into this game or give us back our Polly."

"You'll have to do without your Polly for a minute, children," insisted
that young woman. "She is to be the bearer of glad tidings," and giving
her eyes another dab she hurried away to the house.

She found Constance alone in the library, instructing herself with an
article on mushroom culture.

"I can read your palm without looking at it, pretty lady," bubbled
Polly. "A large blond gentleman with handsome blue eyes and a million
dollars in his pocket is about to offer you a proposal of marriage."

Constance, suppressing a rising resentment, turned the leaf of her
mushroom article. The next page began a startling political series,
which demanded of the public in violent headlines: "Who Spends Your
Money?" but Constance perused it carefully without noticing the
difference.

"I've had my palm read before," she presently observe