Mrs. Fox, her hand hovering over a finger-bowl, grew rigid.

“Thirty-two!” she echoed blankly.  Then sharply:  “Anthony, do you think you can stop it?”

“I’ll do what I can, believe me!” he assured her grimly.  “Yes, sir, she’s thirty-two!  By the way, Fanny, this letter’s already a month old.  Why haven’t I had it before?”

“You told them to hold only the office mail while you were travelling, you know,” Mrs. Fox reminded him.  “That one evidently has been following you.  Anthony, can Tony marry without your consent?”

“No-o, but of course he’s of age in five months, and if she’s got her hooks deep enough into him, she—­oh, confound such a complication, anyway!”

“It looks to me as if she wanted his money,” said Mrs. Fox.

“H-m!” said his father, again deep in the letter.  “That’s just occurred to you, has it?  Poor old Buddy—­poor old Bud!”

“Oh, he’ll surely get over it,” said Mrs. Fox, uncertainly.

“He may, but you can bet she won’t!  Not before they’re married, anyway.  No, Bud’s the sort that gets it hard, when he does get it!” his father said.  “There’s a final tone about the whole thing that I don’t like.  Listen to this!” He quoted from the letter with a rueful shake of the head. “’I don’t know what the darling girl sees in me, dad, but she has turned down enough other fellows to know her own mind.  At last I realize what Mrs. Browning’s wonderful sonnets—­’”

“He doesn’t say that?” ejaculated the listener, incredulously.

“‘She doesn’t know I am writing you,’” Mr. Fox read on grimly, “’because I don’t want her to worry about your objecting.  But you won’t object when you know her.  She doesn’t care anything about money, and says she will stick by me if we have to begin on an eighty-dollar-a-month job.  You don’t know how I love her, dad; it has changed my whole life.  It’s not just because she’s beautiful, and all that.  You will say that I am pretty young, but I know I can count on you for some sort of job to begin with, and things will work out all right.’”

“H-m!” said Mrs. Fox.  “Yes, you’re right, Tony.  This is serious!”

“All worked out, you see,” said the man, gloomily, as he drummed absently on the letter.

“Oh, Anthony, I can’t help thinking of the Page boy, and that awful woman!  Anthony, shall I go?  Could I do any good if I went?”

“No,” he said thoughtfully.  “No, I’ll go myself.  Don’t worry, Fanny, there’s still time.  Isn’t it a curious thing that it’s a quiet little fellow like Bud that—­well, we’ll see what can be done.  I’ll talk to this woman.  She may think he has money of his own, you know.  I’ll buy her off if I can.  Perhaps I can get him to go off somewhere with me for a trip.  I’ll see.  Barker can look me up a train, and things here will have to wait.  You’ll see about my things, will you, Fanny—­have ’em packed?  Oh, and here’s the letter—­pretty sick reading you’ll find it!”