thought you just wanted me to speak to my father."
"Of course I supposed you would do that."
"I mean about your paper."
"About my paper?"
"So as he could give you the money—to do what you want."
"Lord, you're too sweet!" George Flack exclaimed, staring. "Do you suppose I would ever touch a cent of your father's money?"—a speech not so hypocritical as it may sound, inasmuch as the young man, who had his own refinements, had never been guilty, and proposed to himself never to be, of the plainness of twitching the purse-strings of his potential father-in-law with his own hand. He had talked to Mr. Dosson by the hour about the interviewing business, but he had never dreamed that this amiable man would give him money as an interesting struggler. The only character in which he could expect it would be that of Francie's husband, and then it would come to Francie—not to him. This reasoning did not diminish his desire to assume such a character, and his love of his profession and his appreciation of the girl at his side ached together in his breast with the same disappointment. She saw that her words had touched him like a lash; they made him blush red for a moment. This caused her own colour to rise—she could scarcely have said why—and she hurried along again. He kept close
