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were eagerly discussing the change in the lives of the Daquins, which to them both seemed so altogether admirable and desirable there was no questioning of its wisdom.

"Got to rush right back to Chicago Thursday—election this fall and two or three important deals—had to see you get started off right———" floated in Mr. Robertson's crisp tones to Jean.

"You were a darling to come all the way to Atlanta," gushed Mary.

"Nothing at all—nothing at all," declared her father. He pronounced it "nothing a-tall."

"Wanted to see you get introduced in the right circles, too. Gene thinks his Creole crowd's stuck-up and exclusive—these Atlanta Negroes'll show him a trick or two for fair. Got to get in right—or you'll never get in."

Jean, who squirmed every time Mr. Robertson familiarly called him "Gene," found his old hostility to Mr. Robertson, his voice, his ideas, his coarseness, rising higher than ever before. His gratitude to him in the train began to vanish. He wished fervently his father-in-law had remained in Chicago. He hated his high-handed method of interfering in his and Mary's and Mimi's most private affairs.

Money—money—money—how much is it worth?—how much can I make out of it?—these were the first, last and intermediate stages of Mr. Robertson's every thought, every statement, every action. I'll go through with it, thought Jean, but I'll never let my soul be turned into a money-grubber's. The resolution, even though he knew it couldn't possibly be carried out completely in this new world he was entering, nevertheless gave Jean some comfort. . . .

Mrs. Plummer waddled down the hall, pushed open the screen door, and slapped with the corner of her gingham apron at the insects which buzzed inside. "These nasty bugs'll be the death of me yet," she complained to her com-