s turned on her nephew again.

"I must say, Otie," she began complainingly, "that, for a man who has
had a success like yours, you are not very cheerful. I should have
thought the notices of the piece would have made you the happiest man
in New York."

There was once a melodrama where the child of the persecuted heroine
used to dissolve the gallery in tears by saying "Happiness? What _is_
happiness, moth-aw?" Mr. Pilkington did not use these actual words,
but he reproduced the stricken infant's tone with great fidelity.

"Notices! What are notices to me?"

"Oh, don't be so affected!" cried Mrs. Peagrim. "Don't pretend that
you don't know every word of them by heart!"

"I have not seen the notices, Aunt Olive," said Mr. Pilkington dully.

Mrs. Peagrim looked at him with positive alarm. She had never been
overwhelmingly attached to her long nephew, but since his rise to fame
something resembling affection had sprung up in her, and his attitude
now disturbed her.

"You can't be well, Otie!" she said solicitously. "Are you ill?"

"I have a severe headache," replied the martyr. "I passed a wakeful
night."

"Let me go and mix you a dose of the most wonderful mixture," said
Mrs. Peagrim maternally. "Poor boy! I don't wonder, after all the
nervousness and excitement.... You sit quite still and rest. I will be
back in a moment."

She bustled out of the room, and Mr. Pilkington sagged back into his
chair. He had hardly got his meditations going once more, when the
door opened and the maid announced "Major Selby."

"Good morning," said Uncle Chris breezily, sailing down the fairway
with outstretched hand. "How are--oh!"

He stopped abruptly, perceiving that Mrs. Peagrim was not present
and--a more disturbing discovery--that Otis Pilkington was. It would
be exaggeration to say that Uncle Chris was embarrassed. That
master-mind was never actually embarrassed. But his jauntiness
certainly ebbed a little, and he had to pull his moustache twice
before he could face the situation with his customary _aplomb_. He had
not expected to find Otis Pilkington here, and Otis was the last man
he wished to meet. He had just parted from Jill, who had been rather
plain-spoken with regard to the recent financial operations; and,
though possessed only of a rudimentary conscience, Uncle Chris was
aware that his next interview with young Mr. Pilkington might have
certain aspects bordering on awkwardness and he would have liked time
to pr