the best
father in the world when he is well and can see things clearly."

Mrs. Whitney was not so sanguine, but she concealed it. She appreciated
what was troubling Hiram. While she encouraged her own son, her Ross, to
be a "gentleman," she had enough of the American left to see the flaws in
that new ideal of hers--when looking at another woman's son. And the
superciliousness which delighted her in Ross, irritated her in Arthur;
for, in him, it seemed a sneering reflection upon the humble and
toilsome beginnings of Charles and herself. She believed--not without
reason--that, under Ross's glossy veneer of gentleman, there was a shrewd
and calculating nature; it, she thought, would not permit the gentleman
to make mess of those matters, which, coarse and sordid though they were,
still must be looked after sharply if the gentleman was to be kept going.
But she was, not unnaturally, completely taken in by Arthur's similar
game, the more easily as Arthur put into it an intensity of energy which
Ross had not. She therefore thought Arthur as unpractical as he so
fashionably professed, thought he accepted without reservation "our
set's" pretenses of aristocracy for appearance's sake. "Of course, your
father'll come round," she said, friendly but not cordial. "All that's
necessary is that you and Adelaide use a little tact."

And she was in her victoria and away, a very grand-looking lady, indeed,
with two in spick and span summer livery on the box, with her exquisite
white and gold sunshade, a huge sapphire in the end of the handle, a
string of diamonds worth a small fortune round her neck, a gold bag,
studded with diamonds, in her lap, and her superb figure clad in a
close-fitting white cloth dress. In the gates she swept past Torrey and
his two clerks accompanying him as witnesses. She understood; her face
was anything but an index to her thoughts as she bowed and smiled
graciously in response to the old judge's salutation.

* * * * *

Torrey read the will to Hiram slowly, pausing after each paragraph for
sign of approval or criticism. But Hiram gave no more indication of his
thought, by word or expression or motion, than if he had been a seated
statue. The reading came to an end, but neither man spoke. The choir of
birds, assembled in the great trees round the house, flooded the room
with their evening melody. At last, Hiram said: "Please move that table
in front of me."

Torrey put the