the seventeenth century, so
I don't know whether he is true to life or not. And I like romance. The
life I lead in the store gives me all the reality I want. I like to read
about brave men and great and gracious ladies."

"I never met any girls like those Farrell write about, but it's nice to
think they exist. I wish I were like them. And, his men, too--they make
love better than any other man I ever read about."

"Better than I do?" I asked.

Polly gazed at the sky, frowning severely. After a pause, and as though
she had dropped my remark into the road and the wheels had crushed it,
she said, coldly, "Talking about books----"

"No," I corrected, "we were talking about Fletcher Farrell."

"Then," said Polly with some asperity, "don't change the subject. Do you
know," she went on hurriedly, "that you look like him--like the pictures
of him--as he was."

"Heavens!" I exclaimed, "the man's not dead!"

"You know what I mean," protested Polly. "As he was before he stopped
writing."

"Nor has he stopped writing," I objected; "his books have stopped
selling." Polly turned upon me eagerly.

"Do you know him?" she demanded. I answered with caution that I had met
him.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, "tell me about him!"

I was extremely embarrassed. It was a bad place. About myself I could
not say anything pleasant, and behind my back, as it were, I certainly
was not going to say anything unpleasant. But Polly relieved me of the
necessity of saying anything.

"I don't know any man," she exclaimed fervently, "I would so like to
meet!"

It seemed to me that after that the less I said the better. So I told
her something was wrong with the engine and by the time I had pretended
to fix it, I had led the conversation away from Fletcher Farrell as a
novelist to myself as a chauffeur.

The next morning at the hotel, temptation was again waiting for me. This
time it came in the form of a letter from my prospective father-in-law.
It had been sent from Cape May to my address in New York, and by my
servant forwarded in an envelope addressed to "Frederick Fitzgibbon."

It was what in the world of commerce is called a "follow-up" letter. It
recalled the terms of his offer to me, and improved upon them. It made
it clear that even after meeting me Mr. Farrell and his wife were still
anxious to stand for me as a son. They were good enough to say they had
found me a "perfect gentleman." They hoped that after considering their
propositio