. Geoffrey Saxton, in Alaskan tan and New York evening clothes and
Piccadilly poise, was talking to the Eugene Gilsons while Claire
finished dressing for the theater.

Mrs. Gilson observed, "She's the dearest thing. We've become awfully
fond of her. But I don't think she knows what she wants to do with life.
She's rather at loose ends. Who is this Daggett boy--some university
student--whom she seems to like?"

"Well, since you speak of him---- I hadn't meant to, unless you did. I
want to be fair to him. What did she tell you about him?" Jeff asked
confidentially.

"Nothing, except that he's a young engineer, and frightfully brave and
all those uncomfortable virtues, and she met him in Yellowstone Park or
somewhere, and he saved her from a bear--or was it a tramp?--from
something unnecessary, at any rate."

"Eva, I don't want to be supercilious, but the truth is that this young
Daggett is a rather dreadful person. He's been here at the house, hasn't
he? How did he strike you?"

"Not at all. He's silent, and as dull as lukewarm tea, but perfectly
inoffensive."

"Then he's cleverer than I thought! Daggett is anything but dull and
inoffensive, and if he can play that estimable role----! It seems that
he is the son of some common workman in the Middlewest; he isn't an
engineer at all; he's really a chauffeur or a taxi-driver or something;
and he ran into Claire and Henry B. on the road, and somehow insinuated
himself into their graces--far from being silent and commonplace, he
appears to have some strange kind of charm which," Jeff sighed, "I don't
understand at all. I simply don't understand it!

"I met him in Montana with the most gorgeously atrocious person I've
ever encountered--one Pinky Westlake, or some such a name--positively, a
crook! He tried to get Boltwood and myself interested in the commonest
kind of a mining swindle--hinted that we were to join him in cheating
the public. And this Daggett was his partner--they actually traveled
together. But I do want to be just. I'm not _sure_ that Daggett was
aware of his partner's dishonesty. That isn't what worries me about the
lad. It's his utter impossibility. He's as crude as iron-ore. When he's
being careful, he may manage to be inconspicuous, but give him the
chance----

"Really, I'm not exaggerating when I say that at thirty-five he'll be
dining in his shirt-sleeves, and sitting down to read the paper with his
shoes off and feet up on the table. But Claire-