with you. I hardly thought about explaining. And then, I'll be frank,
I was afraid if I did tell, you wouldn't have me. I did side-step a
bit, that's a fact."

"You admit this, and yet you expect me to accept as my husband a man
who admits he is a crook!"

"My dear Clara," he protested gently, "I never admitted I was such an
undraped, uneuphonious, square-cornered word as that."

"Well, if a forger isn't a crook, then who is? The business of those
forged letters of Thomas Jefferson, do you think I can stand for
that?"

The young man was in earnest, deadly earnest; yet he could not help
his wide mouth tilting slightly upward to the right. Plainly there was
something here that amused him.

"But, Clara, you don't seem to understand that business--and you don't
seem to understand me."

"No, I must say I don't!" she said caustically.

"Well, perhaps I can't blame you," he admitted soothingly, "for I
don't always understand myself. But really, my dear, you're not seeing
this in the right light. Oh, I'm not going to defend myself. It's sad,
very sad, but I'll confess I'm no chromo of sweet and haloed rectitude
to be held up for the encouragement and beatification of young John D.
Rockefeller's Bible Class. Still, I get my living quite as worthily as
many of the guests who grace"--with a light wave of his hand about