“Dot, do you remember Kirke Waldron?”

Dorothy Broughton, daintily manipulating her breakfast grapefruit, her shapely young arm showing interesting curves through the muslin and lace of her morning gown—­made by her own clever fingers—­looked up at her brother Julius.  He was keeping her company at her late and solitary breakfast, sitting casually on the arm of his brother-in-law’s empty chair, his long legs crossed, his arms folded upon his chest.  His bright eyes surveyed his sister as he spoke, from the crown of her carefully ordered hair to the tips of her white shoes—­he could see them from his position at one side, and he observed that they were as white and as fresh as her gown.  That was one of the things Julius heartily approved of in his pretty sister—­her fastidiousness in such matters.  He was fastidious himself to a degree; nothing more correct in its way than his own morning attire could have been imagined.

“Waldron?” Dorothy repeated.  “That tall, solemn boy who used to stumble over himself on his way to the blackboard?”

“And then had the rest of the class looking like a set of dough-heads while he covered the blackboard with neat little figures that always came out right; a perfect shark at ‘math.’  Yes, he’s the one.  Five classes ahead of us then—­fifteen now.  We aren’t in it, any of us, with Kirkie Waldron these days.”

“I’ve never heard nor thought of him since then,” averred his sister.  “Do you mean he’s made something of himself?  I should never have thought it.”

“No, you’d never have thought it, because he stumbled over his own feet when he was a kid.  Well, let me tell you it’s the only thing he’s ever stumbled over.  He’s just been taken into the office of Haynes and Ardmore, consulting mining engineers, and everybody says that’ll mean a partnership some day.  And that brings me to my point.  He hasn’t taken a day’s vacation for two years.  Day after to-morrow he sails for South America to stay six months, looking after the development of a new mine down there in Colombia.  He can take to-morrow for a holiday, and I’ve asked him out—­with Bud’s permission.  And I want you to help me give him the time of his life.”

“Me?” Dorothy opened her brown eyes.  “Oh, but I can’t give you to-morrow!  The bridal party’s going on an all-day motor trip.”

Julius ran his hand through the crisp, half-curly locks of his black hair.  “Cut it out.  You don’t need to be on every last one of their junketings.  Get ’em to let you off for to-morrow.”

“I can’t possibly.  I’m to be maid of honour, you know.  Irene would never forgive me, nor—­some of the others.”

Julius frowned.  “See here, you’re not letting Ridge Jordan get any headway with you, are you?  If you are you’d certainly better make him take a day off while you see what a real man is like.  After you’ve had a good look at Kirke Waldron you’ll be ready to let Tom Wendell and Ridge Jordan and the rest of those bridal party men go to thunder.  I don’t suppose Waldron was ever an usher or best man at a wedding in his life, but I tell you he’ll make every one of those little society men look like copper cents, just the same.”