back to Dorothy.

"There's a gentleman named Mr. Storms?"

"Yes, papa!" (timidly).

"You love him?"

"Yes, papa!" (feebly).

"You shall marry him!"

"Yes, papa!" (blushingly).

"John!" (with horror).

"Invite him to dinner to-morrow."

"Yes, papa!" (rapturously).

"And every other evening you choose!"

"Yes, papa!" (more rapturously).

"John!" (with a gasp).

"And now, madam," observed Mr. Harley, wheeling on Mrs. Hanway-Harley
with politeness sudden and vast, "I am ready to attend to you. Let me
commence by mentioning that I am master of this house, and shall give
dinners when I will to whomsoever I please."

"But you said marriage, John, and Mr. Storms is a pauper! Think what you
do!"

"It may entertain you, madam," returned Mr. Harley, in a manner of grim
triumph, "to hear that you also are a pauper. Yes, madam, you, I, Pat
Hanway--we are all paupers. Now I shall go to your scoundrel Storri and
tell him what I have told you. Oh! I shall not murder the villain,
madam; though I give you my word, if there were no one to think of but
Jack Harley, I'd return to you blood to my elbows; yes, madam, to my
elbows!" and Mr. Harley pulled up his coatsleeves very high to give
force to his words.

Lighting a cigar, which he set between his teeth so that it projected
outward and upward at an angle of defiance, Mr. Harley got into his hat
and greatcoat, and made for the door. As he threw it open preparatory to
issuing forth, there floated back with a puff of cigar smoke these
words, delivered presumably for the good of Mrs. Hanway-Harley:

"Yes, madam; blood to my elbows!"

"Your father is insane!" groaned Mrs. Hanway-Harley to Dorothy, when the
door had slammed and Mr. Harley was on his way to Storri, "absolutely
insane!"

Then Mrs. Hanway-Harley, with many an ejaculation of self-pity over a
fate that had made her helpmeet to a lunatic, called her maid to aid
her in creeping to her room. As for Dorothy, she danced about as light
as air; in the finale she danced across the way to Bess to tell that
sorceress what wonders had befallen.

"Eh! you Harley--you John Harley, is it you?" jeered Storri, as Mr.
Harley was shown in.

"Yes, you black villain and thief, it is I!" roared Mr. Harley, planting
himself in front of Storri, who had not taken the polite trouble to get
up from the sofa where he reclined. "Yes, you world's scoundrel, who but
I!"

"Scoundrel?" repeated Storri with a screech, springing to