“Oh! you men,” spluttered Mrs. Tweksbury.  “You make me weary—­disgusted; you’re no more fit to manage your affairs than babies, and your monumental conceit drives sensible women crazy.  We ought to ask you to marry us.  We ought not wait to see you ruin yourselves and us, too.”

“But, Aunt Emily, why in thunder do you think Nancy Thornton cares for me?  If she wants Cameron, why shouldn’t she have him?”

At this Emily Tweksbury flung her head back and regarded Raymond with flaming eyes.

“You—­well!—­just what are you?  Can’t you see?  Could you possibly believe any girl would take Cameron if she had you to choose?”

At this Raymond laughed.  He laughed with abandon, going the gamut of emotions like a scale.  But presently he became quiet, and a rare tenderness overspread his face.  He went over to Mrs. Tweksbury and bent to kiss her.

“I never knew before, Aunt Emily,” he said, “just what a mother meant.  I’m sorry, dear.  Upon my word, I’m deadly sorry, but I’m made slow and cautious and mechanical—­I’m afraid of making mistakes—­and if I have lost because of my weakness, why, you and I must cling the closer.”

“Oh!  Ken.  When you talk like that I feel that I must go and have it out with Nancy!”

“Aunt Emily, hands off!”

Raymond was suddenly stern, and Mrs. Tweksbury bowed before the tone.

But Raymond meant to make sure before he accepted defeat.  He spurred himself to the test with the name of Emily Tweksbury on his lips.  That name seemed to hold all his responsibilities and hopes—­his long-ago past; the only claim upon the future except——­ And in this Raymond was sincere.  His own honest love for the girl who had entered his life so soon after his doubt of himself had had birth made him fear to put his feet upon the broad highway.

But he braced himself for effort and on a stormy, sleety January afternoon he telephoned to Nancy and asked her if she were to be free that evening.

She was.  And—­to his shame Raymond heard it gleefully—­she had a “sniffy little cold” that made going out impossible.

“Are you afraid of sniffy colds?” asked Nancy, “they say they are catching!”

“I particularly like them,” Raymond returned.

“We’ll have a big fire in the sunken room and,” here Nancy gurgled over the telephone, “we’ll toast marshmallows.”

Raymond presented himself as early as he dared and was told by the maid to go to the sunken room.  Believing that Nancy was there awaiting him, he approached with a beaming countenance.

Cameron stood with his back to the roaring fire.

“Hello, Ken!” he blurted, cheerfully.  “You look like a gargoyle.”

“Thanks!” All the light and joy fled at the sight of the big fellow by the hearth.  Dispiritedly, Raymond sat down and resigned himself to what he believed was the inevitable.

Cameron regarded him critically as he might have a puzzling case.  Then, having made a diagnosis, he prescribed: