easily.

"Bet you three to one she hasn't tumbled. Now you trot along, Bill, and cheer up."

Bill could not shake off his premonition of trouble as he walked slowly down-stairs. With disquieting clearness he sensed that all was not right with his world. Nor did this feeling leave him even when Aunt Caroline removed her spectacles and looked up, smiling.

"It's something I just remembered, William. I wanted to speak to you about your secretary."

"Secretary, Aunt Caroline? He's my valet."

"Oh, no; I don't mean Peter. I mean your secretary."

Bill shook his head to signify he did not understand.

"The secretary I am going to engage for you, William."

"What secretary? What would I do with a secretary, Aunt Caroline?"

"Your social secretary," said Aunt Caroline.

"My social—I'm afraid I don't get you, aunty."

"It is very easily explained, William. All persons who lead an active life in society require a secretary."

Bill stared at his benevolent aunt.

"Holy smoke, Aunt Caroline! I'm not in society."

"But you will be, my dear nephew."

"Never!"

"Oh, yes, William—soon."

"But—Aunt Caroline—I don't want to go into society. I haven't any use for it. I'm not built——"

"There, now, William. We must always put our duty before our mere inclinations. It is your duty to enter society."

Bill almost trembled. This was worse than anything his imagination had conjured. He felt deeply dismayed and, at the same time, excessively foolish.

"Duty?" he echoed. "Duty? Why, how in—how can it be a duty, Aunt Caroline? You've got me knocked cold."

She smiled gently and patiently.

"It is your duty to the family, William. It is something your father would wish. He had a distinguished position in society. Your grandfather's position was even more distinguished. Because of the fact that I am a spinster it has not been possible for me to maintain the family tradition. But for you, William—why, the whole world of society is open to you. It is waiting for you."

Aunt Caroline clasped her hands in a spell of ecstasy.

"But, my dear aunt, I don't know anybody in society," groaned Bill.

"A Marshall can go anywhere," she answered proudly.

"But I don't want to. I'm not fit for it. I'd feel like a jay. I can't dance, Aunt Caroline, I can't talk, I can't doll up—hang it! Look at the size of me. I tell you I'm too big for society. I'd step on it; I'd smother it. I'd break it all into pieces."

"William, nonsense!"

"It is not nonsense; it's the goods, Aunt Caroline. Why, I couldn't even sneak in the back way."

"No Marshall ever sneaks in anywhere," said Aunt Caroline, with a trace of sternness that Bill did not miss. When his aunt was stern, which was rare, it was an omen. "The family pride and the family honor are now in your hands, William, and if you are a Marshall you will be true to them."

"But—oh, I want to do something serious," pleaded Bill.

"What, for instance?"

Bill was stalled. He did not know what. It was merely the clutch of a drowning man at a straw.

"You will find that society is serious, very serious," observed Aunt Caroline. "There may be some who think it is frivolous; but not the society in which the Marshalls are known. None of us can escape the heritage of our blood, William; none of us should try. If the world of fashion calls you as a leader, it is simply your destiny calling."

Bill regarded his aunt with horror-stricken eyes. He had never thought of a Destiny garbed in the grotesque. For one awful instant he saw himself the perfect gentleman, moving in a wholly polite and always correct little world, smiling, smirking, carrying ices, going to operas, wearing cutaways and canes, drinking tea, talking smartly, petting lap-dogs, handing damosels into limousines, bowing, dancing, holding the mirror to propriety—he—Bill Marshall—old Walloping Bill. His knees shook. Then he brushed the fearsome picture from his mind.

"Aunt Caroline, it's utterly impossible!"

"William, I have decided."

For a few seconds he faced her, matching her glance. He was red with belligerence; Aunt Caroline had the composure of placid adamant. He knew that look. Again the dread picture began to fashion itself; there was weakness in his soul.

"But listen, Aunt Caroline; I'm such a roughneck——"

"William!"

He made a ponderous gesture of despair and walked out of the library.

CHAPTER III

Engaged

Out of the library and through the parlor—there was a parlor in the Marshall home—strode Bill, with each step gathering speed and assuming the momentum of an avalanche. Things that were in his way suffered consequences. Not that Bill was clumsy at all, although he thought he was, as most men do who belong in the oversize class. He was simply for the moment disregardful of property. Sometimes he believed in the innate perversity of inanimate matter and comported himself accordingly. He was in a hopeless anguish of mind. Oh, that Aunt Caroline should have pressed this cup to his lips.

Through the parlor and into the reception-room. A high-backed chair lay in his path. He placed a foot against it and shot it across the floor, the chair moving on its casters as smoothly as a roller coaster. It hit the wall, spun around and a young woman fell out of it.

Bill halted to stare.

"Holy smoke!"

Then he was across the room, picking her up.

"Oh, I beg a million pardons!"

By this time she was on her feet, very pink in the cheeks and with eyes all amaze. Bill was steadying her with a reassuring hand, but she drew away quickly. It was quite plain that as soon as her surprise passed she would become angry. Bill sensed this in a swift glance.

"Two million!" he said hastily.

She regarded him uncertainly. Gray eyes, straight nose, pleasant mouth, but rather large, fluffy sort of hair that might be reddish in a strong light—all these things Bill was observing. And then—yes, she had freckles; not aggressive, spacious freckles, but small, timid, delicately tinted freckles—the kind of freckles that are valuable to the right sort of girl. Bill liked freckles.

"Three million," he said, and grinned.

"I'll take you at the last figure," she answered.

"Good. I'm awfully obliged. I suppose there's no use asking if I startled you?"

"Quite useless. You did."

"It was very childish of me," said Bill, more humbly. "You see, the chair was in my way."

"And you refused to be thwarted," she nodded gravely.

"I certainly did. I was angry about something and—say are you kidding me?"

This time she smiled and Bill grinned again, sheepishly.

"Anyhow, the chair wasn't where it belonged," he said. "And when you sit in it your head doesn't even stick over the top. I had no idea there was anybody in it, of course."

"Of course," she assented. There was a funny little wrinkle at the corner of her mouth.

"See here," said Bill sharply. "You are kidding me, and—well, I'm glad I kicked the chair."

"But really, I don't think either of us was to blame," said the young woman. "I knew the chair wasn't in its regular place. It was moved over here for me."

"What for?"

"So I could look at the ancestors."

Bill glanced at the wall, where Grandfather and Grandmother Marshall hung in their golden frames.

"Now, who in blazes did that?" he demanded.

"I