“Richard,” said Anthony Rockwall, “what do you pay for the soap that you use?”

Richard, only six months home from college, was startled a little.  He had not yet taken the measure of this sire of his, who was as full of unexpectednesses as a girl at her first party.

“Six dollars a dozen, I think, dad.”

“And your clothes?”

“I suppose about sixty dollars, as a rule.”

“You’re a gentleman,” said Anthony, decidedly.  “I’ve heard of these young bloods spending $24 a dozen for soap, and going over the hundred mark for clothes.  You’ve got as much money to waste as any of ’em, and yet you stick to what’s decent and moderate.  Now I use the old Eureka—­not only for sentiment, but it’s the purest soap made.  Whenever you pay more than 10 cents a cake for soap you buy bad perfumes and labels.  But 50 cents is doing very well for a young man in your generation, position and condition.  As I said, you’re a gentleman.  They say it takes three generations to make one.  They’re off.  Money’ll do it as slick as soap grease.  It’s made you one.  By hokey! it’s almost made one of me.  I’m nearly as impolite and disagreeable and ill-mannered as these two old Knickerbocker gents on each side of me that can’t sleep of nights because I bought in between ’em.”

“There are some things that money can’t accomplish,” remarked young Rockwall, rather gloomily.

“Now, don’t say that,” said old Anthony, shocked.  “I bet my money on money every time.  I’ve been through the encyclopaedia down to Y looking for something you can’t buy with it; and I expect to have to take up the appendix next week.  I’m for money against the field.  Tell me something money won’t buy.”

“For one thing,” answered Richard, rankling a little, “it won’t buy one into the exclusive circles of society.”

“Oho! won’t it?” thundered the champion of the root of evil.  “You tell me where your exclusive circles would be if the first Astor hadn’t had the money to pay for his steerage passage over?”

Richard sighed.

“And that’s what I was coming to,” said the old man, less boisterously.  “That’s why I asked you to come in.  There’s something going wrong with you, boy.  I’ve been noticing it for two weeks.  Out with it.  I guess I could lay my hands on eleven millions within twenty-four hours, besides the real estate.  If it’s your liver, there’s the Rambler down in the bay, coaled, and ready to steam down to the Bahamas in two days.”

“Not a bad guess, dad; you haven’t missed it far.”

“Ah,” said Anthony, keenly; “what’s her name?”

Richard began to walk up and down the library floor.  There was enough comradeship and sympathy in this crude old father of his to draw his confidence.

“Why don’t you ask her?” demanded old Anthony.  “She’ll jump at you.  You’ve got the money and the looks, and you’re a decent boy.  Your hands are clean.  You’ve got no Eureka soap on ’em.  You’ve been to college, but she’ll overlook that.”