le for the upper hand in his
formulating professional standards. The Doctor's theory was the
clean-cut, comprehensible, and plausible one. But something within Hal
responded to the hot idealism of the fighting journalist. He wanted
Ellis for a fellow workman. And his last waking notion was that he
wanted and needed Ellis mainly because Ellis had told him to go to hell.

CHAPTER VIII

A PARTNERSHIP

All the adjectives in the social register were exhausted by the daily
papers in describing Mrs. Festus Willard's dance. Without following them
into that verbal borderland wherein "recherche" vies with "exclusive,"
and "chic" disputes precedence with "distingue," it is sufficient for
the purposes of this narrative to chronicle the fact that the pick of
Worthington society was there, and not much else. Also, if I may borrow
from the Society Editor's convenient phrase-book, "Among those present"
was Mr. Harrington Surtaine.

For reasons connected with his new venture, Hal had come late. He was
standing near the doorway wondering by what path to attain to an
unidentified hostess, when Miss Esme Elliot, at the moment engaged with
that very hostess on some matter of feminine strategy with which we have
no concern, spied him.

"Who is the young Greek godling, hopelessly lost in the impenetrable
depths of your drawing-room?" she propounded suddenly.

"Who? What? Where?" queried Mrs. Willard, thus abruptly recalled to her
duties.

"Yonder by the doorway, looking as if he didn't know a soul."

"It's some stranger," said the hostess, trying to peer around an
intervening palm. "I must go and speak to him."

"Wait. Festus has got him."

For the host, a powerful, high-colored man in his early forties, with a
slight limp, had noticed the newcomer and was now introducing himself.
Miss Elliot watched the process with interest.

"Jinny," she announced presently, "I want that to play with."

The stranger turned a little, so that his full face was shown. "It's Hal
Surtaine!" exclaimed Mrs. Willard.

"I don't care who it is. It looks nice. Please, mayn't I have it to play
with?"

"Will you promise not to break it? It used to be a particular pet of
mine."

"When?"

"Oh, years ago. When you were in your cradle."

"Where?"

"On the St. Lawrence. Several summers. He was my boy-knight, and
chaperon, and protector. Such a dear, chivalrous boy!"

"Was he in love with you?" demanded Miss Elliot with lively interest.

"