to be growing rich very rapidly, he really was doing so about half as fast as everybody thought.  Chip would not steal,—­that was vulgar.  But he would take every possible advantage of other people by keeping close his own counsels and pumping out theirs.  He would slander a piece of property and then buy it.  He would monopolize on a short market, and fill his purse by forestalling.  Indeed, he was, altogether, one of the keen, and greatly admired in business circles.

It was not easy for Chip to love any being but himself,—­not even a woman.  But his smart figure, for which Nature and the tailors had done their best, set the general female imagination into the most lively action.  Many were the dreams about him,—­day-dreams and night-dreams,—­that were dreamed in front of all manner of little filigree bird nest bonnets and under snowy nightcaps; and at the slightest encouragement on his part, no doubt, the idea of himself which had been manufactured in many minds would have been fallen in love with.  The reality certainly would not have been.  Miss Millicent Hopkins wore one of the caps set for Chip, and her he professed vehemently to love.  But she was the daughter of a millionnaire of a very set temper, who had often said and sworn that his daughter should not have any man who had not proved by more than mushroom or retail success in business that he was able and likely to better her fortune.  Miss Millicent must plainly either be run away with, or fairly won on old Hopkins’s plan of wholesale, long-winded business success.  Miss Millicent’s good looks, if they did not amount to beauty, did, nevertheless, add something to the attractiveness of her vast pecuniary prospects.  Chip had obtained the young lady’s decided favor without absolutely crossing the Rubicon himself, for he had no notion of taking her without any of the funds her father had to bestow.  It was arranged between them that his paternal consent should be asked, and the die or live of matrimony should depend on that.  But, with confidence, or what is sometimes called brass, enough to put any sort of question, it was impossible for Chip Dartmouth to state the case to old Mr. Hopkins as it was.  Having obtained a private interview, he grasped the old gentleman by the hand with an air as familiar as it was apparently cordial.

“Ah!  I am very glad to see you, Mr. Hopkins, for I have been thinking what a fool I must be not to pay my addresses to Miss Millicent; and I can take no steps, you know, without your consent.”

“You can take none with it, Sir,” was the emphatic reply of the severe parent, with a sort of annihilating look.  “I admire your prudence and frankness, my young friend; but, till you show yourself a merchant, of my own sort, I beg you will excuse me and my family from any of the steps you contemplate.  Good-morning, Sir,—­good-morning!”

The showing-out was irresistible, leaving nothing more to be said.