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tougher clay. "My country needs me," he told his bride, and the girl's father (a V.C. man, with the Crimean medal and half a dozen clasps) applauded grimly.

In 1871 Mr. Barrington laid the foundation stone of his fine house on Nob Hill, and with the exception of a few flying visits to Europe, Honolulu, and Japan, had occupied it continuously from the hour the upholsterers left it. When his Eastern friends urged upon him the claims of New York he would shake his head. "I shall live and die in California. like the climate and I like the people. made my money here and here I shall spend it!"

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He took great pride in his house, a remarkably pure specimen of the Palladian style, the style which Inigo Jones immortalized in the seventeenth century, and which lends itself so admirably to azure skies and sweeping lawns. The mansion occupied a block of land, and was built of white stone. The Corinthian portico fronted upon California Street, and from the library windows a magnificent view of the harbor and bay could be obtained. The reader is already familiar with the inner hall, which was practically the living room of the family. To the left of this and opening from it were the state apartments, a huge saloon hung with yellow Florentine damask, and a ball room. Upon the right side of the house were the dining room, the billiard room, and the library. The offices and kitchens lay in the rear, and the bed rooms and the picture gallery were upstairs. San Francisco boasted of several palaces larger, and possibly, better furnished, than the home of Rufus Barring ton, but none surpassed it in classic beauty of exterior, or even compared with it.

"I always have the best," said the millionaire, "where the best can be had. I would n't live in that gimcrack collec

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"Have I an English accent? Upon my word I did n't know it. I thought I spoke through my nose as effectively as the rest of you."

"I like your accent," cried his sister. "Why should n't you keep it? Tommy Van Shyster would give you a thousand dollars for it. Mother, he must keep his accent, must n't he? You are English, you know, assert yourself."

"Your mother," said Mr. Barrington quite seriously," is an American. The wife takes the nationality of her husband."

It was well known that the speaker carried his patriotism, as he carried his American physiognomy, wherever he went. His intense respect and reverence for Uncle Sam were salient characteristics of the man.

"I am the mother of Dick," remarked his wife," that is all I know or think about tonight."

"By the bye, I have some presents for you people. If you promise not to chaff me about my English accent; I will send for them."

Dick cut the strings of the packages as they were brought in by the servant, and distributed his gifts. The choice of the different articles argued on the part of the buyer both discrimination and a sense of humor. His father received a

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"You used to complain, sir, that the servanis tampered with your cocktail materials. Here is a portable bar-room for you, a Cave of Spirits to which you alone have the open sesame."

"My dear boy, you have placed me under the greatest obligations. What a capital contrivance!"

For Mrs. Barrington there was an edition of Dante, exquisitely bound in white vellum. Henry found his name in black letters upon a square leather box which contained an immense assortment of the latest ties. And Helen was made happy with a pigskin saddle.

"That," said Dick, "is the neatest thing in saddles I ever saw. It shows what old London can do when she tries. There is nothing like it in New York."

"It is perfection, perfection," she cried, "and it could n't give a horse a sore back if it tried. Why, Dick, what is that?"

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She pointed to a small morocco case, lying on the floor. With an exclamation. her brother picked it up and placed it hastily in his pocket.

"It is mine," he said confusedly. "I don't know how it got here."

"Do Bachelors of Arts wear bracelets? Let me see it, Dick, I am dying of curiosity."

"Which won't be gratified by me, Miss Impertinence."

As Mr. Barrington took the various decanters from the spirit case preparatory to filling them with rum, brandy, whisky, and bitters, the front door bell rang.

"We are not at home, Mosher," said Mrs. Barrington, as the butler passed noiselessly through the room. In a moment, however, he appeared with a card. "The gentleman, sir, is anxious to see you."

"It's Mr. Chetwynd, papa, the great traveler. You will make an exception in his favor."

"Nonsense," growled the millionare, who had taken off his coat, 66 we are having a family time,- why spoil it?"

"You begged Mr. Chetwynd to call, and he will think it so rude. Ask him in to take a drink, and don't put on your coat. He will think shirt-sleeves the correct thing in San Francisco, and if he does n't understand Americanese, Dick will interpret."

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'Well, well,” replied her father, with a sigh. "You always have your own. way. Mosher, show Mr. Chetwynd in here."

A tall, squarely built man, middleaged, with grizzled hair and mustache, and a dark, determined face, bronzed by the elements to almost the color of mahogany, followed the butler into the inner hall, and shook hands with Mrs. Barrington. The strange appearance of his host, brandishing a bottle of Jamaica rum in one hand and a cut glass decanter in the other, in no way dismayed him. Dick was formally presented, and the famous explorer perceived that his visit was ill-timed.

"Your butler, Mrs. Barrington, an Englishman, I perceive, said, 'Not at home,' but I ventured to send in my card, as I was anxious to thank your husband for his very great courtesy in placing his private car at my disposal tomorrow. However, I shall not need it, as I propose to spend another month in San Francisco."

"I am delighted to hear it,'' cried the old man. "You have caught me, Mr. Chetwynd, in the act of mixing a drink. Perhaps you did not know that I was an expert at the business. I once tended bar professionally."

"Rufus," cried his wife, much distressed. "Why do you say such things?"

"My dear, it's the truth. When I was up in Shot-Gun Gulch, at the time of the excitement, Billy the bar tender was shot, and the boys insisted upon my taking his place. They said afterwards that I had forgotten more than Billy ever knew. Mr. Chetwynd, won't you take something?"

"How do you like San Francisco?" asked Mr. Barrington.

The millionaire made a point of putting this banal question to all visitors. But he allowed the birds of passage a reasonable time to pick up crumbs of information. John Chetwynd had spent ten days on the Pacific Slope. He had seen

"With the greatest pleasure. Brandy, everything of interest, including Califorplease."

His voice was very harsh, metallic in quality, and he spoke with impres sive distinctness. Helen watched him intently. His personality was irresistibly attractive to most women. He had just returned from an expedition to the heart of Burmah, and the fame of his adventures was in the mouths of men. Helen and her mother had attended one of his lectures the day before, and the girl had hung breathless upon the recital of his perils and adventures. She had contrasted the lecturer with other men of her acquaintance to the detriment of the latter. Her father was celebrated for his hospitality. Every person of note came to his house and was entertained there lavishly. Thus early in life the girl had come in daily contact with all sorts and conditions of lions, and had learned by frequent practice to weigh accurately the merits and demerits of each noble beast as it paraded before her. But this lion from the swamps and backwoods of the Irawaddy roared more magnificently than the others, and excelled them in size and strength. Indeed his strength was what chiefly impressed the crowd; that and the mysterious stories which were in constant circulation about him. The world said he was a misogynist, and certainly his mere bodily presence argued independence of femininity. The man had been cast in an heroic mold. A solitary, saturnine figure, made to stand alone, superior to the needs and necessities of his weaker brethren.

nia's best citizens. His criticism, therefore, carried intrinsic authority and weight.

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"Nice town," he replied curtly. Capital hotels, pleasant people, and a lack of restraint which I perhaps of all men can best appreciate."

"A lack of restraint?" queried his host, thinking uneasily of shirtsleeves and Jamaica rum.

"Yes, a lack of restraint, of conventionality. Ten years hence San Francisco won't be such a pleasant town. The social conditions that reign paramount in London and New York will rule here."

The words were shot forth with curious abruptness.

"All your fault," he continued, his grim features unrelaxed.

"My fault, Mr. Chetwynd?" "Yes. Railroads, you know. Did n't you build them?"

"Not exactly, but I am proud to call myself a link in the chain that connects the West and East." "Just so."

"Is that why you refused to use our car, Mr. Chetwynd," said Helen. "Possibly you prefer to walk."

"Yes, I would sooner walk, Miss Barrington. You Americans don't walk enough. What is the result? No legs! The American of the twentieth century will be calfless."

Everybody laughed except the English

man.

"You blame my father," said Dick

"for building the road, but who supplied the rails? John Bull must share your strictures!"

"Speaking of rails," remarked Mr. Barrington," reminds me of a purchase I once made. The story is worth telling. It happened not so long ago, in the days when England supplied all our metal. I wanted rails badly, and the market quotations were booming. Private information told me that a big sailing ship was almost due in New York, carrying a full cargo of rails. I knew that Ganderbilk and Gold needed a limited quantity, so I went to them and as a great favor let them have what they required out of my yards. A few days later the ship came in, and a big Britisher strode up to my office and offered me the whole cargo. I told him I was not prepared to buy rails. Who will take them?' he asked. 'I don't know,' 1 replied. I am selling rails myself. Ganderbilk and Gold bought some last week. Here is the invoice.' My muscular friend glanced at the invoice and swore deeply. 'What the deuce am I to do?' he asked. 'Call again in six months,' I said carelessly, and I will buy the lot.' The next day I was on the lookout for my man. He had been the rounds, as I knew, and no one wanted his rails. Then he came back to me, and as an accommodation I bought the whole cargo, for a song. I must have netted twenty-five thousand dollars. It was a glorious bluff."

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John Chetwynd laughed. His laugh was harsher than his voice. Henry Barrington only smiled; he had heard the story before, and hoped one day to do something of the kind himself. Dick, however, neither laughed nor smiled.

"I suppose," he said quietly, "the poor devil hardly made expenses.'

"I don't know about that, my boy." "Rather hard luck," continued Dick, "at least it seems so to me."

Chetwynd glanced at the young man sharply.

"This one," he thought, "has not shed his milk teeth yet." Then he said aloud,

"An excellent story, and a happy illustration of Nature's inexorable law." "Cherish your illusions, Dick, if you please," said his father emphatically, "but don't confound them with delusions. When you have knocked about this wideawake world a few more years, you won't stub your toes against facts. In business, my boy, a man must consider number one before number two. That is a fact."

Mrs. Barrington hastened to change the subject.

"Mr. Chetwynd, pray tell us something more about the East Indians. Your lecture was intensely interesting to me. It is hardly conceivable that those savages are human beings like ourselves."

Hardly conceivable," echoed Chetwynd in his deepest tones. "Why, my dear lady, believe me, the Indians have much in common with us. Human nature on the banks of the Irawaddy is the same human nature you meet on Market Street, or in Rotten Row. everywhere the same hideous passions, the same lust for gain, the same envy, the same familiar lies, and the same familiar humbug."

It is impossible to describe the effect of these words. Trite though they were, they fell upon the ears of the Barringtons with strange and novel force. Uttered with Chetwynd's phlegmatic, stoical, passionless, delivery they gave an impression almost of horror. It seemed as if the speaker had looked down from some convenient coign of vantage — the back of an elephant or a camel into the heart of humanity, and found it rotten to the core. During the chill silence that ensued John Chetwynd took his leave.

"Phew!" said Mr. Barrington, wiping his broad forehead with a large silk handkerchief. "That man's last speech has left a bad taste in my mouth."

"I don't like the fellow," remarked Henry.

"You have not much in common," said his sister, with heightened color. "There is nothing of the Pharisee about Mr. Chetwynd."

"I don't like him any more than Henry does," said Dick. "If a man finds evil everywhere he must be evil himself."

"Well said," rejoined his father. "If they have taught you that at Oxford and nothing else you have not wasted your time."

III.

"AND now, my boy, that we are alone, tell me candidly your conception of life, up to date. I am pleased with you. You have taken a good degree; you got the gold medal for Latin verse, although heaven only knows what good Latin verse will be to you out here; and they tell me you spar well. I am glad to hear that,"

he alluded to the sparring,-"I used to be fairly good with the gloves myself. Now take your time, and help yourself to one of these cigars."

Dick selected a cigar, and blushed slightly beneath the directness of his father's glance.

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"I am well satisfied with life. had a jolly good time so far. Fate has been kind to me. Of course I have ambitions; I want to succeed. I wish --'

"That's right," interrupted his father. "You don't want to be known only as your father's son. I expected to hear that. Of course, I could give you a couple of millions, and with such a sum a man can make quite a splash, but you would owe it to me. A tub should stand on its own bottom. Again, the responsibilities of wealth are immense. If you, I say you because I hope you feel as I do on the subject, if you felt yourself unable to handle the power entrusted to you, you would lose your self-respect, and then God help you."

The old man spoke with vigor and emphasis, waving his cigar in the air and sitting squarely upright in his chair. There was a local coloring, a flavor of the West, about his speech and person, that commended itself to his son. He thought proudly that California had been molded into shape by men like his father. He was a Titan, belonging to the prehistoric time of '49, a Pioneer.

Enthusiasm is very infectious. Dick felt within himself at that moment the capacity of the speaker.

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