that possibly be?"

"I don't mind telling you that the last time I offered myself the
young lady appeared a trifle less obdurate. She shook her head, but I
thought I observed signs of wavering--faint, yet appreciable. If now I
could only put her under an obligation and thus convince her of my
effectiveness, I am confident I could win her."

"Your effectiveness?" queried Harrington, to whom the interview was
becoming more psychologically interesting every moment.

"Yes, she considers me an unpractical person--not serious, you know. I
know what you consider me," he added with startling divergence--"a
dude."

Harrington found this searchlight on his own previous thought
disconcerting. "Well, aren't you one?" he essayed boldly.

Dryden pondered a moment. "I suppose so. I don't wear reversible cuffs
and I am disgustingly rich. I've shot tigers in India, lived in the
Latin quarter, owned a steam yacht, climbed San Juan Hill--but I have
not found a permanent niche. There are not places enough to go round
for men with millions, and she calls me a rolling stone. Come, now,
I'll swap places with you. You shall own this motor and--and I'll
write the press notice on the Ward-Upton funeral."

Harrington stiffened instinctively. He did not believe that the
amazing, splendid offer was genuine. But had he felt complete faith
that the young man beside him was in earnest, he would have been proof
against the lure of even a touring car, for he had been touched at his