me as Roxbury Medcroft that I can't endure him as Brock."

"I--I don't understand," murmured Edith plaintively. Constance looked up
with a new interest in her ever sprightly face.

"Well, you see, he's working so hard to square himself with Medcroft for
the break he made about the windows, that he's taking his spite out on
all American architects. Confound him, he persists in saying I'm all
right, but God deliver him from those demmed rotters, the American
builders. He says he wouldn't let one of us build a hencoop for him,
much less a dog kennel. Oh, I say, Connie, don't laugh! How would you
like it if--" But both of them were laughing at him so merrily that he
joined them at once. Burton and O'Brien, who had come in, were smiling
discreetly.

"Come, Roxbury, what do you say to a good long walk?" cried Constance.
"I must talk to you seriously about a great many things, beginning with
egotism." He set forth with alacrity, rejoicing in spite of his
limitations.

Upon their return from the delightful stroll along the mountain side,
she went at once to her room to dress for dinner. Brock, more deeply in
love than ever before, lighted a cigar and seated himself in the
gallery, dubiously retrospective in his meditations. He was sorely
disturbed by her almost constant allusion to Freddie Ulstervelt and his
"amazingly attractive ways." Was it possible that she could be really in
love with that insignificant little whipper-snapper? He seemed to be
propounding this doleful question to the lofty, sphinx-like
Waldraster-Spitze, looming dark in the path of the south.

"Hello!" exclaimed a voice close to his ear,--the fresh, confident voice
that he knew so well. "I've been looking for you everywhere." Freddie
drew up a chair and sat down at his "good side." The young man appeared
to have something weighty on his mind. Brock shifted uneasily. "I want
to put it up to you, Mr. Medcroft, as man to man. You are Connie's
brother-in-law and you ought to be able to set me straight."

"Ah, I see," said Brock vaguely.

"You do?" queried the other, surprise and doubt in his face.

"No, I should say I don't, don't you see," substituted Brock.

"I was wondering how you _could_ have seen. It's a matter I haven't
discussed with anyone. I've come to have a liking for you, Roxbury.
You're my sort; you have a sort of New York feeling about you. I'm sure
you're enough of a sport to give me unprejudiced advice. Hands across
the sea, see? Wel