d of teaching nonsensical flappers, had no chance to marry, and
had hit upon this as her means of painlessly extracting a little _joie
de vie_.

Declining to learn his astral name Steve left Gaylord to mop up the
astral vibrations. Beatrice did not mind his absence though he
neglected to say that the work was to be done at Miss Faithful's
apartment and not at the office. Never having questioned Steve in such
details Beatrice merely murmured inwardly that goat tending in one's
past strangely enough led to pigheadedness in later life. It was a
relief to have him away, for if drawn into an argument he still
thumped his fists. For everyday living Beatrice preferred her own pet
robins and angel-ducks, as she called the boys of the younger set, who
flocked to flirt with her because she was extremely rich and pretty
and they were in no danger of being matrimonially entangled.

Of course Gaylord ate up this occult-name affair. It was discovered
that Gaylord's was a most hampering name and had his parents only
consulted the stars and named him Scintar--who knows to what
heights he might not have risen? Trudy's astral title should have
been Urcia, which she now adopted, blushing deeply as she recalled
the vulgar Babseley and Bubseley of former days. But when Aunt Belle
was informed that Cinil was the cognomen needed to make her discover
an Indian-summer millionaire waiting to bestow his heart upon her
Mark Constantine had packed his bags and departed unceremoniously for
Hot Springs.

Meantime, Mary did not know just how to treat this imperious lonesome
young man who came boldly into her household without apology or
warning.

"You don't know how often I've wanted to come and see you," he said,
unashamedly, delighted that Luke was out of the way and he could play
in his fashion the same as Beatrice did in hers. "It isn't business,
really. I just wanted to talk to you. You assume so much formality at
the office that though I admit it may be wise I miss the real you."

"You mean you just trumped up an excuse----"

Then Mary began to laugh.

"I do. The DeGraff muddle can wait. It's nice to be able just to
sprawl about--sprawl in a comfortable old chair. I like this little
room. We are being turned into an Italian villa, you know. I don't
quite see how I'll ever live up to it." As he spoke he took out a
plebeian tobacco pouch and a nondescript pipe. "May I?"

"Do! Only you ought not to be here at all"--trying to be severe, an