ite. She's--it's rather discouraging----"

Randy, left alone with Dalton, was debonair and delightful. George,
looking at him with speculative eyes, decided that there was more to
this boy than he would have believed. He had exceedingly good manners
and an ease that was undeniable. There was of course good blood back of
him. And in a way it counted. George knew that he could never have been
at ease in old clothes in the midst of elegance.

It was Randy who spoke first of Becky. Dalton's heart jumped when he
heard her name. Night after night he had ridden towards Huntersfield,
only to turn back before he reached the lower gate. Once he had ventured
on foot as far as the garden, and in the hush had called softly,
"Becky." But no one had answered. He wondered what he would have done if
Becky had responded to his call. "I am not going to be fool enough to
marry her," he told himself, angrily, yet knew that if he played the
game with Becky there could be no other end to it.

Randy said, quite naturally, that Becky was going away. To Nantucket. He
asked if George had been there.

"Once, on Waterman's yacht. It's quaint--but a bit spoiled by summer
people----"

"Becky doesn't know the summer people. Her great-grandparents were among
the first settlers, and the Merediths have never sold the old home."

"She is a pretty little thing," George said. "And she's buried down
here."

"I shouldn't call it exactly--buried."

George, with his eyes on the peacock, smiled and shrugged his shoulders.

Randy smiled and his eyes, too, were on the peacock. He was thinking
that there were certain points of resemblance between the gorgeous bird
and Dalton. They glimmered in the sunlight and strutted a bit----

He came back to say easily, "Has Becky told you of our happiness----"

George gave him a startled glance. "Happiness?"

"We are to be married when she comes back--at Christmas."

"Married----"

"Yes," coolly, "it was rather to be expected, you know. We played
together as children--our fathers played together--our grandfathers--our
great-grandfathers."

A cold wave seemed to sweep over George. So this young cub would have
her beauty!

"Aren't you rather young----?" he demanded, "and what have you to give
her?"

"Love," said Randy calmly, "a man's respect for her goodness and
worth--for her innocence. She's a little saint in a shrine."

"Is she?" Georgie-Porgie asked, and smiled to himself; "few women are
that."

Aft