you were
desperate; that you took the five hundred dollars to speculate with, and
that this is the result."

"But that wouldn't be true," said G. G.'s mother.

"For mercy's sake," said Cynthia, "what has the truth got to do with it!
This isn't a matter of religion or martyrdom; it's a matter of business!
How to put an end to my husband's troubles and to enable my son to marry
the girl he loves?--that's your problem; and the solution is--lie! Whom
can the money come from if not from you? Not from me certainly. You must
lie! You'd better begin in the dark, where your husband can't see your
face--because I'm afraid you don't know how very well. But after a time
it will get easy; and when you've told him the story two or three
times--with details--you'll end by believing it yourself.... And, of
course," she added, "you must make over half of the securities to G. G.,
so that he will have enough money to support a wife."

For two hours Cynthia wrestled with G. G.'s mother's conscience; but,
when at last the struggling creature was thrown, the two women literally
took it by the hair and dragged it around the room and beat it until it
was deaf, dumb, and blind.

And when G. G.'s father came home G. G.'s mother met him in the hall
that was darkish, and hid her face against his--and lied to him! And as
she lied the years began to fall from the shoulders of G. G.'s
father--to the number of ten.

VII

Cynthia was also met in a front hall--but by her father.

"I've been looking for you, Cynthia," he said gravely. "I want to talk
to you and get your advice--no; the library is full of smoke--come in
here."

He led her into the drawing-room, which neither of them could remember
ever having sat in before.

"I've been talking with a young gentleman," said her father without
further preliminaries, "who made himself immensely interesting to me. To
begin with, I never saw a handsomer, more engaging specimen of young
manhood; and, in the second place, he is the author of some stories that
I have enjoyed in the past year more than any one's except O. Henry's.
He doesn't write over his own name--but that's neither here nor there.

"He came to me for advice. Why he selected me, a total stranger, will
appear presently. His family isn't well off; and, though he expects to
succeed in literature--and there's no doubt of it in my mind--he feels
that he ought to give it up and go into something in which the financial
prospects are bri