"Green mice," she repeated with an adorable smile at her lover--"unless
my father finds a necessity for you in his business--with a view to
partnership. And I'm going to let you arrange that together. Good-by."

And she entered her studio, closing the door behind her, leaving the two
men confronting one another in the entry.

For one so young she had much wisdom and excellent taste; and listening,
she heard her father explode in one lusty Saxon word. He always said it
when beaten; it was the beginning of the end, and the end of the sweetest
beginning that ever dawned on earth for a maid since the first sunbeam
stole into Eden.

So she sat down on her little camp stool before her easel and picked up a
hand glass; and, sitting there, carefully removed all traces of tears
from her wet and lovely eyes with the cambric hem of her painting apron.

"Damnation!" repeated Mr. Carr, "am I to understand that the only thing
you can do for a living is to go about with a troupe of trained mice?"

"I've invented a machine," observed the young man, modestly. "It ought to
be worth millions--if you'd care to finance it."

"The idea is utterly repugnant to me!" shouted her father.

The young man reddened. "If you wouldn't mind examining it--" He drew
from his pocket a small, delicately contrived bit of clockwork. "This is
the machine----"

"I don't want to see it!"