ill," he added soberly, "it stands. I travel a deal,
and no one knows what may happen. And so you are the John Winthrop my
dad treated so shabbily? Oh, don't protest, he did. I should have
hunted you up long ago, and given you a solid bank account, only I knew
that the son of my aunt must necessarily be a gentleman, and,
therefore, would not look favorably upon such a proceeding."

"Thank you," said I. The fellow pleased me.

"And then, I did not know but what you cared nothing for money."

"True. A journalist doesn't care anything about money; the life is too
easy and pleasant, and most of the things he needs are thrown in, as
they say."

This bit of sarcasm did not pass; my cousin laughed again that merry
laugh of his.

"I think we shall become great friends," he said. "I like frankness."

"My remark in its literal sense was the antithesis of frankness."

"Ah, you said too much not to be frank. Frankness is one of the
reasons why I do not get on well with the women. I can't lie in the
right place, and when I do it is generally ten times worse than the
plain truth."

"You're a man of the world, I see."

"No, merely a spectator."

"Well, you have the price of admission; with me it's a free pass. Some
day we will compare notes."

"Who is your banker?"

"Banker? I have none. I distrust banks. They take your mite and
invest it in what-nots, and sometimes when you go for it, it is not
there."

"And then again it multiplies so quickly that you have more than you
know what to do with; eh?"

"As to that I cannot say. It is hearsay, rumor; so far as I know it
may be so. Experience has any number of teachers; the trouble is, we
cannot study under them all. Necessity has been my principal
instructor. Sometimes she has larruped me soundly, though I was a
model scholar. You will go to luncheon with me?"

"If you will promise to dine with me this evening?" And I promised.

For an hour or more we chatted upon congenial topics. He was
surprisingly well informed. He had seen more of the world than I,
though he had not observed it so closely. As we were about to leave,
the door opened, and Phyllis, Ethel and her husband, Mr. Holland,
entered. For a moment the room was filled with the fragrance of
October air and the essence of violets. They had been in town a week.
They had been "doing" the Strand, so Ethel said, and thought they would
make me a brief visit to see how "it was done," the forei