studied them, and flung them from him. Everything was in a hopeless muddle. He stirred the dying fire and stared into it. If Neale took the house he would claim all there was in it—he had always wanted the crystal cat, and the lacquered cabinet, the silver pheasants which had for three generations trailed their shining feathers down the dining tables of convivial Carews. Neale was an insatiable collector. Next to his ambition for social prominence was his passion for rare and beautiful objects. One need hope for little with such a man. He was capable of setting Hildegarde and her father with their few remaining effects out on the front lawn, as poor tenants were set out in the streets in the old melodramas.
With his imagination now actively at work, Louis saw pictures in the fire of himself and Hildegarde squeezed into a squalid apartment. Of Hildegarde washing dishes, of himself going forth to seek a job. No Carew had ever lived in an apartment! No Carew had ever washed dishes! No Carew had ever sought a job! There was, of course, a chance for super-economies in Paris! But even Paris might prove too much for their pocket-books.
Paris! Another picture in the fire. Of Hildegarde in Bobby Gresham's big car, with her arms full of violets, purple ribbons in her hair, gay, laughing, lovely.
By Jove, that was the solution! Bobby! Louis laughed with relief. Why hadn't it come to him before? Bobby's millions matched Winslow's. He was young, good-looking, and Hildegarde liked him. If she could only be brought to see the advantages.
