. She gave
him about the only excuse he now had for continuing to hold his seat
on the Stock Exchange. The girl was tall and dark and slender, and had
an instinct for clothes that permitted her to follow the vagaries of
fashion to their extremes with the assurance of a Parisienne, plus a
certain Stuyvesant daring that was American. At dinner that night she
wore, for Don's benefit, a new French gown that made even him catch
his breath. It was beautiful, but without her it would not have been
beautiful. Undoubtedly its designer took that into account when he
designed the gown.

The dinner was in every way a success, and a credit to the Stuyvesant
chef--who, however, it must be said, seldom had the advantage of
catering to a guest that had not lunched. Stuyvesant was in a good
humor, Mrs. Stuyvesant pleasantly negative as usual, and Frances
radiant. Early in the evening Stuyvesant went off to his club for a
game of bridge, and Mrs. Stuyvesant excused herself to write notes.

"I met Reggie Howland at the tea this afternoon," said Frances. "He
was very nice to me."

"Why shouldn't he be?" inquired Don.

"I rather thought you would come. Really, when one goes to all the
bother of allowing one's self to be engaged, the least one expects is
a certain amount of attention from one's fiancee."

She was standing by the piano, and he went to her side and took her
hand--the hand wearing the solitaire that had been his mother's.

"You're right," he nodded; "but I was all tied up with business this
afternoon."

She raised her dark brows a trifle.

"Business?"

"Lots of it," he nodded. "Come over here and sit down; I want to tell
you about it."

He led her to a chair before the open fire. He himself continued to
stand with his back to the flames. He was not serious. The situation
struck him now as even funnier than it had in Barton's office. He had
in his pocket just thirteen cents, and yet here he was in Stuyvesant's
house, engaged to Stuyvesant's daughter.

"It seems," he began--"it seems that Dad would have his little joke
before he died."

"Yes?" she responded indifferently. She was bored by business of any
sort.

"I had a talk to-day with Barton--his lawyer. Queer old codger,
Barton. Seems he's been made my guardian. Dad left him to me in his
will. He left me Barton, the house, and twelve dollars and sixty-three
cents."

"Yes, Don."

She did not quite understand why he was going into details. They did
not see