't be able to call his soul his own! If
he gives her diamonds, she'll want more diamonds--if he covers her and
stuffs her with money, she'll never have enough! She'll want all she can
get out of him while he lives and everything he has ever possessed when
he's dead."

Helmsley rubbed his hands more vigorously together.

"A very nice young lady," he murmured. "Very nice indeed! But if you
judge her in this way now, why did you ever fall in love with her?"

"She was pretty, David!" and Reay smiled--"That's all! My passion for
her was skin-deep! And hers for me didn't even touch the cuticle! She
was pretty--as pretty as a wax-doll,--perfect eyes, perfect hair,
perfect figure, perfect complexion--ugh! how I hate perfection!"

And taking up the poker, he gave a vigorous blow to a hard lump of coal
in the grate, and split it into a blaze.

"I hate perfection!" he resumed--"Or rather, I hate what passes for
perfection, for, as a matter of fact, there's nothing perfect. And I
specially and emphatically hate the woman that considers herself a
'beauty,' that gets herself photographed as a 'beauty,' that the press
reporter speaks of as a 'beauty,'--and that affronts you with her
'beauty' whenever you look at her, as though she were some sort of
first-class goods for sale. Now Miss Mary is a beautiful woman--and she
doesn't seem to know it."

"Her time for vanity is past,"--said Helmsley, sententiously--"She is an
old maid."

"Old maid be shot!" exclaimed Angus, impetuously--"By Jove! Any man
might be proud to marry her!"

A keen, sharp glance, as incisive as any that ever flashed up and down
the lines of a business ledger, gleamed from under Helmsley's fuzzy
brows.

"Would you?" he asked.

"Would I marry her?" And Angus reddened suddenly like a boy--"Dear old
David, bless you! That's just what I want you to help me to do!"

For a moment such a great wave of triumph swept over Helmsley's soul
that he could not speak. But he mastered his emotion by an effort.

"I'm afraid,"--he said--"I'm afraid I should be no use to you in such a
business,--you'd much better speak to her yourself--"

"Why, of course I mean to speak to her myself,"--interrupted Reay,
warmly--"Don't be dense, David! You don't suppose I want _you_ to speak
for me, do you? Not a bit of it! Only before I speak, I do wish you
could find out whether she likes me a little--because--because--I'm
afraid she doesn't look upon me at all in _that_ light----"