?"

It appeared it did not shock him at all.

[Illustration: "Suppose you find you do hate being poor?"]

When they reached the house she established him in the drawing-room
and went off to find her father.

She was a true woman, by which is meant now and always that she
preferred to allow a man to digest his dinner before she tried to
bring him to a rational opinion. But in this case her hands were tied.
The Cords dined at eight--or sometimes a little later, and Ben's
boat left for New York at half past nine, so that it would be utterly
impossible to postpone the discussion of her future until after
dinner. It had to be done at once.

Crystal ran up and knocked at his bedroom door. Loud splashings from
the adjoining bathroom were all the answer she got. She sat down on
the stairs and waited. Those are the moments that try men's and even
women's souls. For the first time her enterprise seemed to her a
little reckless. For an instant she had the surprising experience of
recognizing the fact that Ben was a total stranger. She looked at the
gray-stone stairway on which she was sitting and thought that her life
had been as safe and sheltered as a cloister, and now, steered by this
total stranger, she proposed to launch herself on an uncharted
course of change. And to this program she was to bring her father's
consent--for she knew very well that if she couldn't, Ben wouldn't be
able to--in the comparatively short time between now and dinner. Then,
the splashing having ceased, the sound of bureau drawers succeeded,
and Crystal sprang up and knocked again.

"That you, Peters?" said an unencouraging voice. (Peters was Mr.
Cord's valet.)

"No, dear, it's I," said Crystal.

"Oh, come in," said Mr. Cord. He was standing in the middle of the
room in his shirt sleeves and gloomily contemplating the shirt he
wore. "What's this laundress, anyhow? A Bolshevist or a pastry-cook?"
he said. "Did you ever see anything like this shirt?"

Crystal approached and studied the shirt. It appeared to her to be
perfectly done up, but she said: "Yes, dear, how terrible! I'll pack
her off to-morrow, but you always look all right whatever you wear;
that's some comfort." She saw that even this hadn't done much good,
and, going to the heart of the problem, she asked, "How did your golf
go?"

Mr. Cord's gloom gathered as he answered, with resignation, "Oh, all
right."

His manner was exactly similar to Ben's in his recent moment of
depre