s, the crass vulgarity of H. R.'s public performances
would not harm her unless her father took it seriously enough to appeal
to the law about it, when the same old fogies would say she should have
ignored it. But she could not clearly see the end of it--that is, an
ending that would redound to her glory. This man was a puzzle, a
paradox, an exasperation. He was too unusual, too adventurous, too
clever, too dangerous; he had too much to gain and nothing to lose. How
should she treat him? He did not classify easily. He was masterful. He
loved her. Masterful men in love have a habit of making themselves
disagreeable.

In how many ways would this masterful man, who was resourceful,
original, undeterred by conventions, indifferent to the niceties of
life, unafraid of public opinion as of social ostracism, make himself
disagreeable? Was he serious in his determination to marry her? Or was
it merely a scheme to obtain notoriety? Was he a crank or a criminal?
She couldn't marry him. What would he do? What wouldn't he do? How long
would he keep it up? Must she flee to Europe?

Her foot was tap-tapping away furiously. She ceased to think in order to
hate him! Then because she hated him she feared him. Then because she
feared him she respected him. Then because she respected him she didn't
hate him. Then because she didn't hate she began to think of him. But
all she knew about him was that he said he loved her and everybody in
New York knew it! Who was he? What was he? Should she start an inquiry?
And yet--

"I beg pardon, miss. But the men--" Frederick paused.

"Yes?"

"They are standing." He meant the sandwiches.

"Well?"

"They are," he reminded her, desperately but proudly, "Mr. Rutgers's
men."

"Tell them to go away," she said.

He stared a moment, for as the consort of the owner of the men she had
feudal obligations to fulfil. He remembered that this was America.

"Very good, miss," he said.

She went up-stairs. She wished to think. It would probably make her head
ache. She therefore told her maid to wake her at six and, taking up one
of Edwin Lefevre's books, she went to sleep.

XII

On Nassau Street twenty sandwich-men were parading, ten on each side of
the street, in the block where the Ketcham National Bank stood. Each
sandwich bore this legend:

[Illustration: ASK THE PRESIDENT OF THE KETCHAM NATIONAL BANK WHY? HE
WON'T LET ME MARRY HIS DAUGHTER. ASK HIM!]

Besides 12,466 men and 289 women,