only fair
to you to say that I speak with the authority permissible to kinship."

"Kinship? Do you mean that you're related to me?"

"Certainly not! Be good enough to look at the paper and you will
understand."

The Tyro was good enough to look, but, he reflected with regret, he
wasn't clever enough to understand.

The first column was given up to a particularly atrocious murder in
Harlem. The second was mainly political conjecture. In the center of the
page was a totally faceless "Portrait of Cecily Wayne, Spoiled Darling
of New York and Newport, whose engagement to Remsen Van Dam has Just
Been Announced." Beyond, there was a dispatch about the collapse of the
newest airship, and, on the far border, an interview with the owner of
the paper, in which he personally declared war on most of Central
America and half of Europe because a bandit who had once worked on a
ranch of his had been quite properly tried and hanged for several
cold-blooded killings.

"You will gain nothing by delay," said the lady impatiently.

"I give it up," confessed the Tyro, returning the paper. "You'll have to
tell me."

"Even the most impenetrable stupidity could not overlook the
announcement of Remsen Van Dam's engagement."

"Oh, yes; I saw that. But as I don't know Mr. Van Dam personally, it
didn't interest me."

"Still, possibly you're not so extremely Western as not to know who he
is. He's the sole surviving representative of one of the oldest houses
in New York."

"Barns, not houses," corrected the other gently. "His father was the Van
Dam coachman. He made his pile in some sort of liniment, and helped
himself to the Van Dam name when it died out."

For Mrs. Denyse to redden visibly was manifestly impossible. But her
plump cheeks swelled. "How dare you rake up that wretched scandal!" she
demanded.

"Scandal? Not at all," replied the Tyro mildly. "You see, I happen to
know. My grandmother was a Miss Van Dam."

"It must have been of some other family," said the lady haughtily. "I
beg to inform you that Remsen Van Dam is my cousin."

"Really! I'm awfully sorry. Still--you know,--I dare say he's all right.
His father--the real name was Doody--was an excellent coachman. I've
often heard Grandma Van say so."

Mrs. Denyse after a time recovered speech by a powerful effort, and her
first use of it was to make some observations upon the jealousy of poor
relations.

"But this is profitless," she said. "You will now appreciate t