ilable 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 the 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 to 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 murmur of their voices. But not a word
that they said was intelligible.

They were talking of Mary. Her introduction to her husband's friends
had been an ordeal for Bob Flippin's daughter. But she had gone
through it simply, quietly, unaffectedly, with the Judge by her side
standing sponsor for his son's wife in chivalrous and stately fashion,
with Mrs. Beaufort at her elbow helping her over the initial small talk
of her presentation. With Truxton beaming, and with Becky drawing her
into that charmed circle of the younger set which might so easily have
shut her out. More than one of those youn