pressing an opinion to her." And he bent upon all the women of his
household a smoldering glance.

Apparently, by mutual consent, the subject was dropped forthwith.
Donald's silence throughout the remainder of the meal was portentous,
however, and Mrs. McKaye and her daughters were relieved when, the
meal finished at last, they could retire with good grace and leave
father and son to their cigars.

"Doesn't it beat hell?" Donald burst forth suddenly, apropos of
nothing.

"It does, laddie."

"I wonder why?"

The Laird was in a philosophical mood. He weighed his answer
carefully.

"Because people prefer to have their thoughts manufactured for them;
because fanatics and hypocrites have twisted the heart out of the
Christian religion in the grand scramble for priority in the 'Who's
Holier than Who' handicap; because people who earnestly believe that
God knows their inmost thoughts cannot refrain from being human and
trying to put one over on Him." He smoked in silence for a minute, his
calm glance on the ceiling. "Now that you are what you are, my son,"
he resumed reflectively, "you'll begin to know men and women. They who
never bothered to seek your favor before will fight for it now--they
do the same thing with God Almighty, seeking to win his favor by
outdoing him in the condemnation of sin. A woman's virtue, lad, is her
main barricade against the world; in the matter of that, women are a
close corporation. Man, how they do stand together! Their virtue's the
shell that protects them, and when one of them leaves her shell or
loses it, the others assess her out of the close corporation, for
she's a minority stockholder."

"Mother and the girls are up to their eyebrows in the work of an
organization in Seattle designed to salvage female delinquents,"
Donald complained. "I can't understand their attitude."

Old Hector hooted.

"They don't do the salvaging. Not a bit of it! That unpleasant work is
left to others, and the virtuous and respectable merely pay for it.
Ken ye not, boy, 'twas ever the habit of people of means to patronize
and coddle the lowly. If they couldn't do that, where would be the fun
of being rich? Look in the Seattle papers. Who gets the advertising
out of a charity ball if it isn't the rich? They organize it and they
put it over, with the public paying for a look at them, and they
attending the ball on complimentary tickets, although I will admit
that when the bills are paid and the last shre