them good, but, confound it, to wish to do them good is an impertinence.
And when I've tried to bring these elements together in my house I have
always failed. Mrs. Crego, while being most gracious and cordial, has,
nevertheless, managed to make the upholsterer chilly, and to freeze the
grocer's wife entirely out of the picture."

"There's one comfort: it isn't a matter of money. If it were, where
would the Congdons be?"

"No, it isn't really a matter of money, and in a certain sense it isn't
a matter of brains. It's a question of--"

"_Savoir faire._"

"Precisely. You haven't a cent, so you say frequently--" Congdon stopped
him, gravely.

"I owe you fifty--I was just going down into my jeans to pay it, when I
suddenly recalled--"

"Don't interrupt the court. You haven't a cent, we'll say, but you go
everywhere and are welcome. Why?"

"That's just it. Why? If you really want to know, I'll tell you. It's
all on account of Lee. Lee is a mighty smart girl. She has a cinch on
the gray matter of this family."

"You do yourself an injustice."

"Thank you."

Crego pursued his argument. "There isn't any place that a man of your
type can't go if you want to, because you take something with you. You
mix. And Haney, for example--to return to the concrete again--Haney
would make a most interesting guest at one's dinner-table, but the wife,
clever as she is, is impossible--or, at least, Mrs. Crego thinks she
is."

Congdon fixed a finger pistol-wise and impressively said: "That little
Mrs. Haney is a wonder. Don't make any mistake about her. She'll climb."

"I'm not making the mistake, it's Mrs. Crego. I've asked her to call on
the girl, but she evades the issue by asking: 'What's the use? Her
interests are not ours, and I don't intend to cultivate her as a freak.'
So there we stand."

Congdon looked thoughtful. "She may be right, but I don't think so. The
girl interests me, because I think I see in her great possibilities."

"Her abilities certainly are remarkable. She needs but one statement of
a point in law. She seems never to forget a word I say. Sometimes this
realization is embarrassing. When she fixes those big wistful eyes on me
I feel bound to give her my choicest diction and my soundest judgments.
Haney, too, for all his wild career, attaches my sympathy. You're
painting his portrait--why don't you and Lee give them a dinner?"

"Good thought! I told Lee this morning that it was a shame to draw the
line