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mother had prodded a tender spot. The fact is, Honey
     was aware of being a little more elated about this dinner engagement than she had a right to be, and, with feminine logic,
     she was angry at her mother for exhibiting precisely the same elation. Mr. English had not caused a ripple in her feelings
     she was sure–for they were a placid, bottomless pool of love for Andrew–but his reputation and wealth dazzled her, and his
     manner had been pleasant, even attractive, despite his graying hair and somewhat worn face. In the most unaccountable way
     she had found herself feeling sorry for him and desirous of pleasing him, so she had accepted his invitation to dinner with
     something like alacrity. This startled her as soon as she was aware of it, for it was the first time since Andrew had won
     her heart that she had felt anything but boredom in carrying out the social duties necessary to her bread-winning. She had
     known many moneyed men, if none quite so rich as English, so it was not merely the wealth that excited her, as it did her
     mother. But, whatever the cause, she knew she was a little disturbed, and was disturbed at the disturbance.
    The ringing of the house telephone put an end to the silent soliloquy in which she had been acknowledging some justice in
     her mother’s reproach. A hasty kiss on her parent’s withered-apple cheek, and she snatched a sable-trimmed black cloth coat
     from a chair and went out–with the assurance that she would be home early–leaving her mother to answer the telephone and say
     that Miss Beaton was on her way down.
    As she hung up the receiver and wandered into the kitchen to mix herself some chocolate milk, Mrs. Beaton reflected sadly
     that she would have liked to meet Mr. English. She knew that it was Laura’s rule not to bring into her home gentlemen to whom
     it was expedient to be pleasant, and she took pride in the knowledge that Honey’s closed apartment door was a jest among the
     other models; but she felt that the rule might have been waived in the case of the millionaire. (In the sense that he represented
     infinity in the scale of desirable sons-in-law, logicians would have verified Mrs. Beaton’s instinctive belief that ordinary
     concepts could not be applied to him.) But how like her father Laura had been, thought the old lady, in her flare of temper
     at the idea of compromise with principle! The least suggestion of tampering with good faith, and the Beaton blood took to
     arms. …
    Her reverie was interrupted by the sound of the front door opening, and Honey’s voice calling gaily, “Mother, are you dressed?
     We have a visitor.”
    Mrs. Beaton’s heart bounded. She glanced quickly at the reflection of herself in the glass of the cupboard, brushed a few
     cracker crumbs off the lace collar of her brown dress, straightened her skirt and trotted out of the kitchen, saying, “Laura,
     the house is in such a mess!”
    “Don’t fuss, Mother.” Laura was playing with her gloves and smiling mischievously. “This is Mr. Stephen English.”
    English held out a lean brown hand, and firmly shook the timid little paw that Mrs. Beaton extended. “Don’t blame your daughter,
     Mrs. Beaton,” he said. “I asked if I might come up to meet you.”
    “Oh, I’m delighted, of course, Mr. English,” said Mrs. Beaton. “If you’ll make allowances, do come in and sit down for a moment.”
    Saying that he should like to very much, the visitor at once divested himself of a handsome tweed coat, which Laura hung with
     hers in the hall closet while her mother eyed English covertly. A very distinguished gentleman, she concluded immediately.
     How easy it was to tell breeding! His healthy, tanned face had something youthful about it, despite a heavy sprinkling of
     gray at the sides of his head and marked lines around the eyes and on his brow. His mouth was untightened as a boy’s, and
     his eyes had an inquisitive, humorous look more suitable to a youngster of