me back, won't you,
when you are famous? We should like to have your account."

Hendrik ignored him. He looked at her and said:

"Do _you_ prefer wealth to fame? Anybody can be rich. But famous? Which
would you rather hear: _There goes Miss $80,000-a-year Goodchild or That
is that wonderful Goodchild girl everybody is talking about?_"

She didn't know what to answer, the question being a direct one and she
a woman. But this did not injure Hendrik in her eyes; for women actually
love to be compelled to be silent in order to let a man speak--at
certain times, about a certain subject. Her father, after the immemorial
fashion of unintelligent parents, answered for her. He said, stupidly:
"It never hurts to have a dollar or two, dear Mr. Rutgers."

"Dollar or two! Why, there are poor men whose names on your list of
directors would attract more depositors to this bank than the name of
the richest man in the world. Even for your bank, between St. Vincent de
Paul and John D. Rockefeller, whom would you choose? Dollars! When you
can _dream_!" Hendrik's eyes were gazing steadily into hers. She did not
think he was at all lunatical. But George G. Goodchild had reached the
limit of his endurance and even of prudence. He rose to his feet, his
face deep purple.

However, Providence was in a kindly mood. At that very moment the door
opened and a male stenographer appeared, note-book in hand. Civilization
does its life-saving in entirely unexpected ways, even outside of
hospitals.

"_Au revoir_, Miss Goodchild. Don't forget the name, will you?"

"I won't," she promised. There was a smile on her flower-lips and firm
resolve in her beautiful eyes. It mounted to Hendrik's head and took
away his senses, for he waved his hand at the purple president, said,
with a solemnity that thrilled her, "_Pray for your future son-in-law!_"
and walked out with the step of a conqueror. And the step visibly gained
in majesty as he overheard the music of the spheres:

"Daddy, who is he?"

At the cashier's desk he stopped, held out his hand, and said with that
valiant smile with which young men feel bound to announce their defeat,
"I'm leaving, Mr. Coster."

"Good morning," said Coster, coldly, studiously ignoring the
outstretched hand. Rutgers was now a discharged employee, a potential
hobo, a possible socialist, an enemy of society, one of the dangerous
Have-Nots. But Hendrik felt so much superior to this creature with a
regular income that he