The breakfast room, flooded with October sunshine, was such a pleasant place that Palmer, leisurely glancing through the columns of the morning paper, deliberately lingered as long as possible over his toast and eggs. Finally he laid the paper aside, slowly poured out a second cup of coffee, and with an expression of good-humored resignation glanced across the table at his secretary.

"Well, Morton," he said pleasantly, "let's have it. What have you got to bother me with to-day?"

The secretary smiled deferentially, as it behooves one to smile when one is earnestly desirous of keeping an easy, gentlemanly position, with little work and good pay.

"There's really very little this morning, Mr. Palmer," he answered. "There were the usual number of begging letters, which I answered in the usual form; a notice of the annual meeting of the polo club; one or two dinner invitations; a letter from Mr. Gordon asking you out to his shooting-box, and the check from the racing club for first money in the Essex."

Palmer chuckled. The winning of the Essex had been one of the never-to-be-forgotten incidents of his life. "Gad, Morton," he cried, "we hit it that time, didn't we? I can see the mare coming under the wire now. Traveling! I'll bet she was traveling! By rights I ought to make the check over to her. She deserves it, if any one ever did. Well, there's nothing very exciting in that mail outside of the check, is there? Nothing immediate, anyway."

Morton smiled faintly. The last three words embodied Palmer's whole philosophy of enjoying life to the best advantage. To live calmly, without haste; to know what was coming in time to enjoy it in anticipation; to be able to put off unpleasant tasks until the latest possible moment—that was Palmer's creed. Some men, nervous and high strung, when the final moment of life itself has to be faced, pray for a sudden death. To Palmer, that would have appeared highly undesirable. Rather, he would infinitely have preferred to have the whole matter indefinitely postponed. So the secretary smiled.

"No," he said, "nothing really immediate, except Mr. Gordon's note. Shall I read it?"

"If you please," answered Palmer indolently, and the secretary read in his even, pleasant voice,

"My Dear Harry:

"Do you recall that you were going to put in a day's shooting with me this fall? I write to tell you that the ducks are just on their flight. I killed over forty in two hours' shooting one day last week, over half of them redheads. Can't you meet me at my office at three to-morrow, and run out for the night?

"Your sincere friend,

"Richard Gordon."

Palmer set down his cup of coffee untasted. "By Jove!" he exclaimed, "that's really very decent of Gordon. I didn't know the ducks were flying like that. Yes, Morton, telephone him I'll go with pleasure. And, Morton, get Smith to pack my shooting things, and look over my gun, and put in about two hundred shells, number six shot. Yes, by gad, I'll go."

Deep down in his heart, although he would not have admitted it, and indeed was perhaps hardly aware of it, Palmer had an immense admiration for Gordon, doubtless based on the fact that Gordon did those things best which Palmer himself would most have liked to do well. Palmer's game of bridge was mediocre. Gordon's was masterly. Palmer played a passable game of golf, sometimes brilliant, always dangerously erratic. Gordon's steadiness had won him a rating among the first dozen on the state handicap list. Palmer could always bring home a fair bag of ducks, shooting being perhaps his greatest enthusiasm, but Gordon's clean right and left kills were little short of wonderful in their precision. Of course, as regarded popularity, Palmer had by far the greater number of hangers-on, retainers, satellites,—friends, he chose to call them—for when a genuine multimillionaire turns out to be a lavish spender as well, the combination furnishes unusual opportunities to those wise in their generation, and yet somehow the men whose friendship Palmer would most have liked, while always civil to him, never seemed to treat him in just the same way they did Gordon.

Thus the prospect of a day at Gordon's shooting-box, sure of good shooting and a pleasant time generally, startled him a little out of his usual calm, and three o'clock found him at the door of Gordon's modest office. Gordon came forward to meet him, his face troubled, a telegram in his hand.

"Confound it, Harry," he cried, as he shook hands, "I'm afraid I've done an awfully stupid thing. About a month ago I got a letter from an old lady up country, one of my mother's oldest friends,—awfully good to me when I was a boy, and all that—saying that she and her daughter were going to run down here for a little trip some time this month. Of course I wrote back, as in duty bound, and told her that I should be out at the shooting-box then, and that she must surely let me entertain her there. I never gave the matter a second thought, and here I've just got a telegram—delayed, of course,—saying they're due in town about half-past two, and will come right over to the office. I suppose they'll be here any minute. I'm infernally sorry. I never meant to let you in for anything like this."

Palmer made a not over successful attempt to conceal his disappointment. "Well, never mind, Gordon," he said reluctantly. "Can't be helped, of course. Better luck another time."

Gordon crumpled the telegram in his hand, and threw it into the waste-basket. "Confound it all!" he cried; "I wouldn't care so much if it wasn't right in the middle of the flight, but this is the very top of the season for redheads and widgeon. The wind's been fresh to the westward all day, too, and now it's just starting to haul out to the north. If it holds there, I'll bet we could kill twenty-five to-night, and God knows how many to-morrow morning at daylight. I don't want you to do anything you don't want to, Harry, but I wish you'd come along just the same. You needn't see anything of them, and, anyway, they're not a half bad sort. The little girl gave promise of being quite a good looker the last time I saw her, three or four years back. I really think you'd better come along just the same, and not mind them at all."

Palmer looked uncomfortable. "Oh, thanks, no," he said, somewhat hastily. "Country cousins, you know, and all that. Not much in my line, I'm afraid."

Gordon laughed. "Well, I don't blame you," he said, "only I feel ashamed of myself to have mixed things up so. I can't help the—"

A knock on the door interrupted him, and the office boy appeared. "Two ladies to see you, Mr. Gordon," he announced, and close upon his heels an elderly lady, clad in sober black, came bustling into the room. Her plain, spectacled face fairly beamed with pleasure as she advanced toward Gordon, both hands outstretched in greeting.

"Well, Dick, my dear boy," she exclaimed, "I am glad to see you again. And how well you're looking."

Gordon took her outstretched hands, and shook them cordially. "The same to you, Aunt Dora," he cried; "I declare you've positively grown younger. And where's Marian?"

Mrs. Francis turned toward the door. "Why, she's here," she answered, "I expect I got ahead of her, I was so anxious to set eyes on you again. Here she is now."

Gordon could hardly repress a start of surprise as he glanced up at the girl standing hesitatingly in the doorway. A prettier picture, he thought quickly, he had never seen. Possibly the simple white muslin dress, with its band of crimson at waist and throat, spoke a little of the country girl on her holiday visit to the city, and the girl was evidently a trifle shy and embarrassed, but these small defects only added to the general impression of freshness and charm. Evidently, too, her shyness was not the shyness of gaucherie, but of becoming modesty, and as she raised her blue eyes at Gordon's greeting there was a sparkle in them eloquent of plenty of spirit and humor to be disclosed on closer acquaintance.

"Why, Marian," he exclaimed, "I'd never have known you! You oughtn't to surprise a man like this. I'll swear you were wearing short dresses the last time I saw you."

The girl blushed and laughed. "Don't be silly, Dick," she protested. "Three years is a long time, and we're awfully glad to see you again."

Gordon turned quickly to Palmer, who stood staring at the girl with a surprise evidently greater than Gordon's own. "Where are my manners?" he cried. "Aunt Dora, my friend Mr. Palmer. Marian, Mr. Palmer. Harry, my oldest friend, Mrs. Francis, and her daughter, Miss Marian Francis. I call Mrs. Francis my aunt principally because she isn't. I was just trying to persuade Palmer to go with us on our little trip, Aunt Dora, but he's obdurate. I wish you would try your hand."

The older woman turned to Palmer with much cordiality. "Why, I wish he would," she cried. "Please do, Mr. Palmer. Dick will be bored to death anyway with two women on his hands to entertain. We'll look after the housekeeping, and you men can have all the shooting you want. I'll guarantee one thing, too. I can cook a duck with any woman in the county."

Gordon nodded in vigorous assent. "I'll back that up, Palmer," he cried. "Leaving out of consideration all question of the pleasure of Aunt Dora's society, her cooking is an inducement no sane man ought to think of refusing. I believe you'll go, after all."

Palmer wavered. The "country cousins," one of them especially, were far from being the curios he had imagined. And the thought of the shooting—he could see in imagination the long lines of ducks fighting their way up the lake against the stiff northerly breeze, swinging to the decoys, with set wings—and yet he hesitated—

"Come, Marian," cried Gordon gaily, "try your hand. Apparently Aunt Dora and I have failed. We've promised him plenty of good shooting and plenty of good cooking. What can you offer to make him change his mind?"

The girl blushed charmingly, but her eyes, nevertheless, met Palmer's squarely. "You see," she murmured demurely, "I don't really know Mr. Palmer's tastes."

Gordon roared. "But you'll do anything you can," he cried broadly. "Well, that's fair. There's a challenge direct, Harry. Do you dare refuse now?"

Palmer's face reddened a trifle. His eyes had scarcely left the girl. "Go?" he cried, "of course I'll go. I was only afraid I might be in the way, but since the ladies are so kind—"

Gordon clapped him on the back. "Good boy," he cried, "and now we mustn't lose any time. Just a half minute till I leave word where I'm going."

He pressed a button, and almost immediately the office boy appeared. "Oh, John," he began, and then caught sight of a yellow envelope in the boy's hand. "What's that you've got there?" he asked sharply.

"Telegram for you, sir," answered the boy promptly. "Just came this minute."

Gordon caught the envelope from the boy's hand, and hastily tore it open. Then, as he read it, his face clouded with vexation. "Well, if this isn't too bad," he cried, "I never knew such luck. Here's a telegram from the one man in the world I can't afford to offend. The biggest customer I've got. Says he reaches town at five and wants half an hour kept absolutely free for business of great importance. I guess that means there's no getting out of it for me. It's too bad, though; I hate to see our plans spoiled like this."

Mrs. Francis was the first to speak. "Why, Dick, what nonsense!" she exclaimed. "We know the way perfectly well. It was only three years ago Marian and I were there, and I don't believe things have changed a great deal since then. We'll go ahead and get everything ready, and you can come out on a later train. That's a great deal better than our staying here or going to a hotel, isn't it, Marian?"

The girl, thus appealed to, glanced quickly at Palmer. "I think you forget, mother," she said quietly, "that we ought to consult Mr. Palmer. He may not care to escort us out there without Dick, and I'm very sure I wouldn't care to go through those woods alone."

Palmer rose gallantly to the occasion. "Not care to?" he cried. "Indeed, I shall be honored, Miss Francis. We'll show Gordon here how well we can get along without him, and I'll have all the shooting to myself. Go? Of course we'll go!"

Gordon turned to him gratefully. "You're awfully good to take it this way, all of you," he said, "and I'll surely be out a little after eight. You'd better be starting, though. You haven't but just time. Oh, and Aunt Dora," he called after them, "you don't change at Fairview any longer the way we used to. Remember not to change. Good-by. Good luck. I'll be there about eight."

As the door closed after them he dropped into a chair with a sigh of relief. "Thank God that's over," he muttered, "so far, so good!"