n the past
seven years, he had overworked. The only recreations he had enjoyed had
been temporary, the persistent pursuit of a number of fads. Though not
wealthy, his unusual success at law had produced an income more than
sufficient for his needs, and the surplus had been used from time to
time in developing the latter. Just now one of these happened to be
Egyptian scarabs, and the well-known collection of Mrs. Kilpatrick
having been called to his attention, he had decided to take a vacation
and look at them.

"Are you Mr. Clayton?"

A slender, girlish figure, clasping a large leather case, stood before
him, and, as he smiled an assent and bowed, extended her hand in cordial
greeting.

"Pardon me--I expected to see Mrs. Kilpatrick," said Clayton.

"I am sorry to say she is not well," said Martha. "I am her companion,
Miss Farnum."

Clayton bowed again and murmured something unintelligible.

"Mrs. Kilpatrick asked me to show you the scarabs. Afterwards you can
tell her what you think of them."

"I shall be glad to do so. I shall probably envy them."

"Mrs. Kilpatrick tells me you are quite a collector."

"Yes," answered Clayton, slowly. "I have collected almost everything in
my time, except money."

"It must be interesting," said Martha naively, sitting in one of the
easy rockers and opening the case, while Clayton drew his chair
alongside.

"First it was postage stamps," explained Clayton, picking up one of the
queer little beetles and examining it intently. "But postage stamps
soon proved tiresome. Then came Indian relics, but they lost favor when
I took up antique weapons of war. Then I went in for emeralds and
jewels, but they proved too expensive. I think I have had twenty fads in
the last ten years."

"But your business--hasn't that suffered?" Martha smiled.

"Not a particle. I've had a glorious time, and my clients who knew of my
fads thought all the more of me because they fancied I must be a brainy
chap to have them." He laughed.

"It must be wonderful to do as one pleases," mused Martha, gazing out
among the trees.

Clayton laughed again.

"Even that gets tiresome," he said. "The girl in the candy shop never
wants a caramel after the third day. Everything grows tiresome after a
while. Now that I've exhausted my list of fads, a horrible future
confronts me--thirty-three years of age, enough money to supply my
needs, and no new fad on which to waste the surplus. What am I to do?"

"There'