He cried to Heaven that a marriage between her and
young Paine would be a crime. "How can you love him, Becky--you are
mine."

The letter had been returned unopened. His burning phrases might have
been dead ashes for all the good they had done. She had not read them.

And now Madge had told him the unbelievable thing--that Becky Bannister,
the shabby Becky of the simple cottons and the stubbed shoes, was rich,
not as Waterman was rich, flamboyantly, vulgarly, with an eye to letting
all the world know. But rich in a thoroughbred fashion, scorning
display--he knew the kind, secure in a knowledge of the unassailable
assets of birth and breeding and solid financial standing.

No wonder young Paine wanted to marry her. George, driving through the
night, set his teeth. He was seeing Randy, poor as Job's turkey, with
Becky's money for a background.

Well, he should not have it. He should not have Becky.

George headed his car for the Merriweathers'. Becky was there, and he
was going to see Becky. How he was to see her he left to the
inspiration of the moment.

He parked his car by the road, and walked through the great stone gates.
The palatial residence was illumined from top to bottom, its windows
great squares of gold against the night. The door stood open, but except
for a servant or two there was no one in the wide hall. The guests were
dancing in the ballroom at the back, and George caught the lilt of the
music as he skirted the house, then the sound of voices, the light
laughter of the women, the deeper voices of the men.

The little balconies, lighted by the yellow lanterns, were empty. As
soon as the music stopped they would be filled with dancers seeking the
coolness of the outer air. He stood looking up, and suddenly, as if the
stage had been set, Becky stepped out on the balcony straight in front
of him, and stood under the yellow lantern. The light was dim, but it
gave to her white skin, to her lace frock, to the pink fan, a faint
golden glow. She might have been transmuted from flesh into some fine
metal. George had not heard the Major's name for her, "Mademoiselle
Midas," but he had a feeling that the little golden figure was
symbolic--here was the real Golden Girl for him--not Madge or any other
woman.

Randy was with her, back in the shadow, but unmistakable, his lean
height, the lift of his head.

George moved forward until, hidden by a bush, he was almost under the
balcony. He could catch the mur