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He was still shaken with the storm of defending his ideals from profanation, and Hallard easily drew from him an admission that Mr. Dyckman was bent upon matrimony, also a scathing diatribe on the remarriage of divorced persons as one of the signs of the increasing degeneracy of public morals. Hallard's paper carried a lovely exclusive story the next morning in noisy head-lines.

His conversation that evening was of the brightest. The poisoned shafts of Miss Hallard's satire met the armoured resistance of his high spirits. They fell pointless and unavailing from his unbounded faith in himself. A man who, after a comparatively few years' service in a bank, is deemed fitted for the responsible duties of a cashier, is qualified to express an opinion, even on art. Mr.

Sons of gentlemen! Think of them! Dear little chaps! My God the mothers bore them, though." It should not be lightly touched upon, this heroism of Janet Hallard's in sacrificing three weeks of her work every hour of which meant some living to her in order to save Sally from that ultimate dark world of dementia towards which she was inevitably drifting.

Really? Choc'late cake's awful good for you. I love chocolate cake. This here cake was made by Esther Coombe's Aunt Amy it's a sure winner! Say, Mister, what do you like anyway?" "Ever so many more things than I did yesterday. By Jove, that chicken looks good!" "Yep. That's Mrs. Hallard's chicken. I thought you'd want the best. She ris' it herself. And made the stuffin' too."