The doctors say they have never seen
such a constitution in a man of my years. Why, almost half my life is
yet before me, and we Travers are a long-lived stock. I took care of
myself, you see, and I have myself to show for it. I was not a waster. I
conserved my heart and my arteries, and yet there are few men who can
boast having done as much work as I have done. Look at that hand.
Steady, eh? It will be as steady twenty years from now. There is nothing
in playing fast and loose with oneself."

And all the while Polly had been following the invidious comparison that
lurked behind his words.

"You can write 'Honourable' before your name," she flashed up proudly.
"But my father has been a king. He has lived. Have you lived? What have
you got to show for it? Stocks and bonds, and houses and servants--pouf!
Heart and arteries and a steady hand--is that all? Have you lived merely
to live? Were you afraid to die? I'd rather sing one wild song and burst
my heart with it, than live a thousand years watching my digestion and
being afraid of the wet. When you are dust, my father will be ashes.
That is the difference."

"But my dear child--" he began.

"What have you got to show for it?" she flamed on. "Listen!"

From within, through the open window, came the tinkling of Tom's
_ukulele_ and the rollicking lilt of his voice in an Hawaiian _hula_. It
ended in a throbbing, primitive love-call from the sensuous tropic night
that no one could mistake. There was a burst of young voices, and a
clamour for more. Frederick did not speak. He had sensed something vague
and significant.

Turning, he glanced through the window at Tom, flushed and royal,
surrounded by the young men and women, under his Viking moustache
lighting a cigarette from a match held to him by one of the girls. It
abruptly struck Frederick that never had he lighted a cigar at a match
held in a woman's hand.

"Doctor Tyler says he oughtn't to smoke--it only aggravates," he said;
and it was all he could say.

As the fall of the year came on, a new type of men began to frequent the
house. They proudly called themselves "sour-doughs," and they were
arriving in San Francisco on the winter's furlough from the
gold-diggings of Alaska. More and more of them came, and they pre-empted
a large portion of one of the down-town hotels. Captain Tom was fading
with the season, and almost lived in the big chair. He drowsed oftener
and longer, but whenever he awoke he was surro