“I can’t altogether, Miss Sheila, for I reckon you wouldn’t have run away from a true-blue, friendly fellow, would you?”

“Yes, Mr. Hudson, I would.  Because, you see, I did.  It was just a sort of panic.  Too much moonshine.”

“Yes, ma’am.  Too much moonshine inside of Dickie.  I hope”—­he leaned toward her, and Sheila, the child, could not help but be flattered by his deference—­“I hope you’re not thinking that Dickie’s unfortunate habit is my fault.  I’m his father and I own that saloon.  But, all the same, it’s not my fault nor The Aura’s fault either.  I never did spoil Dickie.  And I’m a sober man myself.  He’s just naturally ornery, no account.  He always was.  I believe he’s kind of lacking in the upper story.”

“Oh, no, Mr. Hudson!”

The protest was so emphatic that Sylvester pulled his cigar out of his mouth, brushed away the smoke, and looked searchingly at Sheila.  She was sitting very straight.  Against the crimson plush of an enormous chair-back her small figure looked extravagantly delicate and her little pointed fingers on the arms, startlingly white and fine.  A color flamed in her cheeks, her eyes and lips were possessed by the remorseful earnestness of her appeal.

“Well, say, if you think not!” Sylvester narrowed his eyes and thrust the cigar back into a hole made by his mouth for its reception; “you’re the first person that hasn’t kind of agreed with me on that point.  I can’t see why he took to the whiskey, anyway.  Moderation’s my motto and always was.  It’s the motto of The Aura.  There ain’t a bar east nor west of the Rockies, Miss Sheila, believe me, that has the reputation for decency and moderation that my Aura has.  She’s classy, she’s stylish—­well, sir—­she’s exquisite”—­he pronounced it ex-squisit—­“I don’t mind sayin’ so.  She’s a saloon in a million.  And she’s famous.  You can hear talk of The Aura in the best clubs, the most se-lect bars of Chicago and Noo York and San Francisco.  She’s mighty near perfect.  Well, say, there was an Englishman in there one night two summers ago.  He was some Englishman, too, an earl, that was him.  Been all over the world, east, west, and in between.  Had a glass in his eye—­one of those fellers.  Do you know what he told me, Miss Sheila?  Can you guess?”

“That The Aura was classy?” suggested Sheila bravely.

“More’n that,” Sylvester leaned farther toward her and emphasized his words with the long forefinger.

“’It’s all but perfect’—­that’s what he said—­’it only needs one thing to make it quite perfect!’”

“What was the thing?”

But Hudson did not heed her question.  “Believe me or not, Miss Sheila, that saloon—­”

“But I do believe you,” said Sheila with her enchanting smile.  “And that’s just the trouble with Dickie, isn’t it?  Your saloon is—­must be—­the most fascinating place in Millings.  Why, Mr. Hudson, ever since I came here, I’ve been longing to go into it myself!”