ionable New
York family of wealth, and he had been a young lion at Pasadena during
the winter just past. He owned automobiles and a yacht and--an extensive
wardrobe. These notable assets had much to do with the conquest of Mrs.
Rodney: she looked with favour upon the transitory Mr. Ulstervelt, and
believed in her heart that he had something to do with the location of
the shining sun. But of this affair more anon, as the novelists say.

Brock was presented to the Rodneys just before the party went in to
dinner. He managed his eyeglass and his drawl bravely, and got on
swimmingly with the elder Rodneys, until Constance appeared with
Katherine and Freddie Ulstervelt. It was not until then that it occurred
to Miss Fowler that Freddie, being from New York, was almost certain to
know Brock either personally or by sight. She experienced a cold chill,
the distinct approach of catastrophe. Brock had just been told that
young Ulstervelt of New York was to be of the party. His blood ran cold.
He had never seen the young man, but he knew his father well; he had
even dined at the mansion in Madison Avenue. There was every reason,
however, to suspect that Freddie knew him by sight. Even as he was
planning a mode of defence in case of recognition, the young man was
presented. Brock's drawl was something wonderful.

"I--aw--knew your family, I'm sure--aw, quite sure," he said. "You know,
of course, that I lived in your--aw--delightful city for some years.
Strange we never met, 'pon my soul."

"Oh, New York's a pretty big place, Mr. Medcroft," said Freddie
good-naturedly. He was a slight young fellow with a fresh, inquisitive
face. "It's bigger than London in some ways. It's bigger upwards. Say,
do you know, you remind me of a fellow I knew in New York!"

"Haw, haw!" laughed Brock, without grace or reason. Miss Fowler caught
her breath sharply.

"Fellow named Brock. Stupid sort of chap, my mother says. I--"

"Oh, dear me, Mr. Ulstervelt," cried Edith, breaking in, "you shan't say
anything mean about Mr. Brock. He's my husband's best friend."

"I didn't say it, Mrs. Medcroft. It was my mother." Brock was hiding a
smile behind his hand. "She knows him better than I. To tell the truth,
I've never met him, but I've seen him on the Fifth Avenue stages. You
_do_ look like him, though, by Jove."

"It's extraordinary how many people think I look like dear old Brock,"
said the false Roxbury. "But, on the other hand, most people think tha