“Very well.  Until I was sixteen years old I lived very close to mountains built of God’s immortal granite.  Whenever I went out to do my chores I barked my shins on God’s immortal granite.  Whenever I plowed I had to do acrobatics to save as much of the plowshare as possible from God’s immortal granite.  It’s all very pastoral to talk about milk fresh from the sweet-breathed cow, but for ten years I was lady’s maid to two singularly repulsive cows—­and in time they cloyed upon me.  Whenever those Juno-eyed kine lowed for a drink of water, it was up to me to hustle out and serve them—­and I never got a tip for my service.  To this good day, Carl, the sight of a cow gives me cramps in the fingers and melancholy in the soul.  Henceforth I’ll take my milk in hermetically sealed jars from one of my own model dairies—­and I’ll try to forget that its origin is—­cows.  That cream in the pitcher there came from a farm of mine up in Westchester.  Bulk for bulk, it costs me about the same as old champagne, but it’s mighty cheap compared to what that other milk came to.”  He paused and gazed at the spoon balanced on a steady forefinger.

“As for the whisper of the breeze through the silver birches, I’ve heard it with chilblains on my feet and bruises on my heart and henceforth when I want to see the shadows fall, I’ll go and stand under Cheops’ pyramid or the Coliseum at Rome or some other edifice reared with human hands as the monument to human achievement that helped to build the world.  When I die they’ll once more lay me close to Nature’s breast, and, being dead, I sha’n’t object—­but until that time I’ll stay away—­as far away as possible.”

The financier ended his good-humored tirade and glanced up to meet the frankly alarmed gaze of Harrow, who at that moment reappeared in the door.

“Miss Burton says,” announced the butler, his usual suavity shaken beyond control, “that there is no answer to your note.  She says you already have her reply.”

The coffee in the percolator was bubbling furiously, and the ice about the grape-fruit was beginning to melt.  Hamilton Burton rose abruptly from his chair.  “Please excuse me for a moment, Carl,” he said in a low voice.  “I will go up and bring my sister down to breakfast.”

The furnishing and decorating of Mary Burton’s apartments had engrossed her brother’s interest for some weeks prior to her arrival and when in answer to his rap a silvery voice said, “Come in,” he stood on the threshold of a boudoir as richly and tastefully detailed as a princess of the blood royal could have asked.

But the girl, who sat indolently before her mirror, clad in a morning negligee of exquisite delicacy, was so like a colorful and lustrous pearl that one forgot her surroundings.  Hamilton’s eyes, the eyes that could change so swiftly from implacability to disarming softness, flashed into pride as he looked at her.

“Mary,” he amiably began, “I think there must be some misunderstanding.  I asked you to come down.”