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Richard Milne could not forbear a smile, which only belatedly he reflected might be taken as derogatory to the young man, twenty-six at the time of his last visit, but schooled—better, dragooned—by his father's impatience daily.

'That's fine.' The remark hearty and sincere. 'I don't think they'll get ahead of Arvin in a deal.'

'And how is your—work progressing?' asked Mrs. Hymerson, beaming. 'I've heard a lot about your books. They happen around here. Two of them, you've written, haven't you?'

Three had been published, Richard told her. 'Things are going well enough that I'm taking a holiday.' He chuckled. 'Keeping in the office, where most of my work with the advertising agency is done, gets pretty tiresome, especially at this season of the year.'

'Get you fellows out in the hay-field,' was Hymerson's jocular amenity. 'Find out it was hot enough there, too.'

The young man did not reply to this, reflecting almost with dismay that he had forgotten the terms of intercourse in the country, by which it was necessary that he should be able to 'give as good as was sent.' Doing that, in fact, was one of the chief roads to respect—one certainly blocked to him, even if the restraint caused him to appear morose.