think I’m trying to borrow, do you?”

“I beg your pardon. Perhaps you will tell me, then, just what you do wish.”

“I must eat, mustn’t I?”

“I consider that a fair presumption.”

“Then what the deuce!”

Don evidently expected this ejaculation to be accepted as a full and conclusive statement. But, as far as Barton was concerned, it was not. “Yes?” he queried.

“I say, what the deuce?”

“I don’t understand.”

“What am I going to do?”

“Oh, I see. You mean, I take it, what must you do in order to provide yourself with funds.”

“Exactly,” growled Don.

“Of course, the usual method is to work,” suggested Barton.

“Eh?”

“To find a position with some firm which, in return for your services, is willing to pay you a certain fixed sum weekly or monthly. I offer you the suggestion for what it is worth. You can think it over.”

“Think it over!” exclaimed Don. “How long do you think I can think on thirteen cents?”

“If you authorize me to act for you, I have no doubt something can be arranged.”

“You seem to hold all the cards.”

“I am merely obeying your father’s commands,” Barton hastened to assure him. “Now, can you give me any idea what you have in mind?”

“I’ll do anything except sell books,” Don answered promptly.

“Very well,” concluded Barton. “I’ll advise you by mail as soon as anything develops.”

“Thanks.”

“In the mean while, if you will accept a loan––”

“Thanks again,” answered Don; “but I’ll go hungry first.” He hung up the receiver and went back to the lounge.

Stuyvesant was proud of his daughter––proud of her beauty, proud of her ability to dress, proud of her ability to spend money. She gave him about the only excuse he now had for continuing to hold his seat on the Stock Exchange. The girl was tall and dark and slender, and had an instinct for clothes that permitted her to follow the vagaries of fashion to their extremes with the assurance of a Parisienne, plus a certain Stuyvesant daring that was American. At dinner that night she wore, for Don’s benefit, a new French gown that made even him catch his breath. It was beautiful, but without her it would not have been beautiful. Undoubtedly its designer took that into account when he designed the gown.

The dinner was in every way a success, and a credit to the Stuyvesant chef––who, however, it must be said, seldom had the advantage of catering to a guest that had not lunched. Stuyvesant 21 was in a good humor, Mrs. Stuyvesant pleasantly negative as usual, and Frances radiant. Early in the evening Stuyvesant went off to his club for a game of bridge, and Mrs. Stuyvesant excused herself to write notes.

“I met Reggie Howland at the tea this afternoon,” said Frances. “He was very nice to me.”

“Why shouldn’t he be?” inquired Don.

“I rather thought you would come. Really, when one goes to all the bother of allowing one’s self to be engaged, the least one expects is a certain amount of attention from one’s fiancée.”

She was standing by the piano, and he went to her side and took her hand––the hand wearing the solitaire that had been his mother’s.

“You’re right,” he nodded; “but I was all tied up with business this afternoon.”

She raised her dark brows a trifle.

“Business?”

“Lots of it,” he nodded. “Come over here and sit down; I want to tell you about it.”

He led her to a chair before the open fire. He himself continued