Craig flashed exaggerated scorn that was confession.

“I’ll do better than introduce you to Towler,” proceeded Arkwright.  “I’ll present you to his daughter—­a dyed and padded old horror, but very influential with her father and all the older crowd.  Sit up to her, Josh.  You can lay the flattery on as thick as her paint and as high as her topknot of false hair.  If she takes to you your fortune’s made.”

“I tell you, my fortune is not dependent on—­” began Craig vehemently.

“Cut it out, old man,” interrupted Arkwright.  “No stump speeches here.  They don’t go.  They bore people and create an impression that you’re both ridiculous and hypocritical.”

Arkwright left Josh with Towler’s daughter, Mrs. Raymond, who was by no means the horror Arkwright’s language of fashionable exaggeration had pictured, and who endured Craig’s sophomoric eulogies of “your great and revered father,” because the eulogist was young and handsome, and obviously anxious to please her.  As Arkwright passed along the edge of the dancers a fan reached out and touched him on the arm.  He halted, faced the double line of women, mostly elderly, seated on the palm-roofed dais extending the length of that end of the ballroom.

“Hel-Lo!” called he.  “Just the person I was looking for.  How is Margaret this evening?”

“As you see,” replied the girl, unfurling the long fan of eagle plumes with which she had tapped him.  “Sit down....  Jackie”—­this to a rosy, eager-faced youth beside her—­“run away and amuse yourself.  I want to talk seriously to this elderly person.”

“I’m only seven years older than you,” said Arkwright, as he seated himself where Jackie had been vainly endeavoring to induce Miss Severence to take him seriously.

“And I am twenty-eight, and have to admit to twenty-four,” said Margaret.

“Don’t frown that way.  It makes wrinkles; and what’s more unsightly than a wrinkled brow in a woman?”

“I don’t in the least care,” replied the girl.  “I’ve made up my mind to stop fooling and marry.”

“Jackie?”

“If I can’t do better.”  She laughed a low, sweet laugh, like her voice; and her voice suggested a leisurely brook flitting among mossy stones.  “You see, I’ve lost that first bloom of youth the wife-pickers prize so highly.  I’m not unsophisticated enough to please them.  And I haven’t money enough to make them overlook such defects as maturity and intelligence—­in fact, I’ve no money at all.”

“You were never so good-looking in your life,” said Grant.  “I recall you were rather homely as a child and merely nice and fresh-looking when you came out.  You’re one of those that improve with time.”

“Thanks,” said the girl dryly.  She was in no mood for the barren blossom of non-marrying men’s compliments.

“The trouble with you is the same as with me,” pursued he.  “We’ve both spent our time with the young married set, where marriage is regarded as a rather stupid joke.  You ought to have stuck to the market-place until your business was settled.”