"By George," Parker declared, apparently puzzled, "one gathers the
impression that you relish parting with your patrimony when you
actually speed the date of departure."

Mrs. Parker took Don Mike by the lapel of his coat. "You have a
secret," she charged.

He shook his head.

"You have," Kay challenged. "The intuition of two women cannot be
gainsaid."

Farrel took each lady by the arm and with high, mincing steps,
simulating the utmost caution in his advance, he led them a little way
down the veranda out of hearing of the husband and father.

"It isn't a secret," he whispered, "because a secret is something which
one has a strong desire to conceal. However, I do not in the least
mind telling you the cause of the O-be-joyful look that has aroused
your curiosity. Please lower your heads and incline your best ears
toward me. . . . There! I rejoice because I have the shaggy old wolf
of Wall Street, more familiarly known as John Parker, beaten at his
favorite indoor sport of high and lofty finance. 'Tis sad, but true.
The old boy's a gone fawn. _Le roi est mort_! _vive le roi_!"

Kay's eyes danced. "Really, Miguel?"

"Not really or actually, Kay, but--er--morally certain."