“Mrs. Martin Marteen requests the pleasure of Mr. Marcus Gard’s company at dinner”—­the usual engraved invitation, with below a girlish scrawl:  “You’ll come, won’t you?  It’s my very last dinner before we go South.—­D.”

He took a stubby quill, which, for some occult reason, he preferred for his intimate correspondence, and scribbled:  “Of course, little friend.  The crowned heads can wait.”  He tossed the envelope on the pile for special delivery, and speared the invitation on a letter file.

Two months had passed, and he was no nearer the solution of the problem he had set himself.  His affection for the girl had deepened—­become ratified by his experience of her sweetness and intelligence.  They were “pally,” as she put it, happily contented in each other’s society.  On the other hand, the fascination that Mrs. Marteen exercised over him was far from being placid enjoyment.  She continued to vex his heart and irritate his imagination.  Her tolerance of young Mahr’s attentions to Dorothy drove him distracted, his only relief being that Miss Gard, his sister, swayed, as always, by his slightest wish, had developed a most maternal delight in Dorothy’s presence, and was doing all in her power to make the girl’s season a most successful one; also, in accord with his obvious desire—­her influence was antagonistic to Mahr, his son and his motor car, his house and his flowers, everything that was his; in spite of which, Dorothy’s manner toward Teddy Mahr was undoubtedly one of encouragement.  Honesty compelled Gard to own that he could not find in the boy the echo of the objectionable sire.  Perhaps the long dead mother, who was never a lawful wife, had, by some retributive turn of justice, endowed him wholly with her own qualities.  Gard could almost find it in his breast to like the big, large-hearted, gentle boy, but for a final irony of fate—­the son’s blind adoration of his father, and that father’s obvious but helpless dislike of the impending romance.  Every element of contradiction seemed to be present in the tangle and to bind the older watchers to silence.  What could anyone do or say?  And meanwhile, in the pause before the storm, Dorothy’s violet eyes smiled into her Teddy’s brown devoted ones with tender approval.

One move only had Gard made with success, and the doing thereof had given him supreme satisfaction.  The account opened in his office in Mrs. Marteen’s name had been transferred to Dorothy, and with such publicity that Mrs. Marteen was unable to raise objections.  Right and left he told the tale of his having desired to advise the widow of his old friend, of his successful operations, of Mrs. Marteen’s refusal to accept her just gains as “too great,” and his determination that the account, transferred to the daughter, should reach its proper destination.  The first result of his outwitting of the beneficiary was a doubling of the usual letters inclosing a cheque and requesting advice.  The secretary was plainly disgusted, but Gard grimly paid the price of his checkmate, and by his generosity certainly precluded any accusation of favoritism.  As he read Dorothy’s note on the invitation, he chuckled at the thought of his own cleverness, and rejoiced in the knowledge that his debutante had become somewhat his ward and protegee.