Relations between them might have ended then and there, for Joan was not in the habit of casting her pearls before swine, and the confidence was rather crushed out of Archibald by a realization of his gross stupidity.

But Effie May was as persistent in her fancies as in other matters.

"Where's the eary one?" she asked Joan one Sunday afternoon following the usual influx of visitors. "He hasn't been around since I don't know when."

"How should I know? Probably towing some lady-typist by her elbow to a church social," replied Joan, yawning.

"You may be sure it's a lady typist, then, and not the other sort," commented her step-mother. "I like that boy!"

"You seem to," murmured Joan, reflecting idly that it was a compliment Mr. Blair did not appear to return; which had been one of the few things in common between them.

But later Effie May had something to say on the subject that interested her more. She said it to her husband in Joan's hearing.

"You remember that young chap we had at the Horse show one night, whom Joan met on the train? Name of Blair?"

"Certainly, my love. An agreeable fellow, though not quite, I should say, to the manner born? However, he had a respect for his elders quite unusual nowadays," said the Major affably, recalling his personal success with the young man. "And a keen sense of humor, as I recall, very keen!"

That, as it happened, was one thing Archibald did not possess. He had in its place a hearty laugh, a passion for "jokes," and a generous appreciation of jesting intentions on the part of others, which doubtless served him quite as well.

"That's the chap. Well, some of the boys who were here this afternoon were telling me that he's quite a scrapper. Seems some of the young sports about town have been putting the gloves on with him, down to the Y. M. C. A.—Johnny Carmichael and that lot—and the other night they got up a match between him and a regular pug, just to see how good he was. Seems he stood up to him three rounds, and come out of it with his nose a pulp and his front teeth gone, askin' for more!"

"Heavens!" murmured Joan. "Those infantile front teeth?"

"Oh, I guess they stuck 'em in again," said Effie May, "but I sure would have liked to see that match! The boys were quite enthusiastic."

"Did he win?" asked Joan.

"Win?—against a professional? Lord, child, he was doin' well to stand up to him one round, let alone three! It was Dan McCabe, Dick."

"McCabe? You don't say," repeated the Major, highly interested. "Blair must be pretty good, then!"

In his younger days Richard Darcy had been something of a devotee of the gloves himself, and still kept up an interest in ring affairs. Boxing, he held, was one of the few exercises really becoming a gentleman; and he had sometimes modestly called the attention of this decadent golfing-generation to a figure any boy of them might well envy, as a result of the sport of kings.

Not latterly, however. Of the Major's more recent figure, the less said the better. Even the mild exertions of the one-step caused him to perspire and puff audibly, and he had requested that the cheval mirror be removed from his dressing-room—a rather serious sign with Richard Darcy. His wife in vain suggested riding, golf, massage. The Major preferred the expedient of doing without his mirror.

She had in mind this growing embonpoint when she spoke of Archibald's accomplishment—as well as several other matters, being a woman who thought nothing of killing two and even three birds with one stone.

"Dickie, I been thinking how nice it would be if you were to put on the gloves with young Blair sometimes? I've always wanted to see you box."

"Pooh," he murmured, flattered, however, by the suggestion. "I couldn't interest him now. And before all those young whipper-snappers at the gymnasium? I'd be a laughing-stock!"

"Why not get him to come up here? Fix up a sort of gymnasium in the attic?"

"Oh, do!" urged Joan, who had been not a little troubled by the recent change in her father. "It will be just what you need, Dad, and such fun! I'm sure you could 'interest' him still."

The Major's eye kindled a little. He was always responsive to any belief in himself. "You think so, Dollykins? Well, possibly, possibly—But you speak as if Blair were to be had for the asking, my love!"

"Well, I think he is," remarked Effie May with a twinkle at her step-daughter. "Depends upon who does the asking—What do you say, Joan?"

"It would have to be done in words of one syllable," murmured the girl unkindly, "but I'll try."

So that again Archibald had occasion to shake hands with Fate; and found himself regularly every Saturday afternoon at four o'clock beneath the roof of his One and Only, gently exercising her parent, with every likelihood of tea to follow.

Not that Archibald had any liking for tea. On the first occasion of his accepting it, he had asked for four lumps of sugar in his cup, explaining that plenty of sweetness took the worst of the taste away. But he had firmly declined the Major's sympathetic suggestion to substitute a highball, having his own quaint notions of the proprieties. One of them was that no gentleman drinks liquor in the presence of a lady. It was a genuine shock to him to find that Major Darcy did so, freely: and what he felt when Mrs. Darcy joined her husband in the act, he was fortunately able to dissemble. It merely confirmed an earlier impression.

Joan gave up riding on Saturday afternoons to stay at home and umpire the boxing matches. She felt that her father ought to be encouraged. Besides, it rather interested her to see her protÉgÉ in a new light. Once stripped to the waist and gloved—(she soon got used to the sight of her father in a pink silk undershirt and Archibald in no shirt at all), the young man lost all his awkwardness and shyness and appeared quite a different person, confident, masterly.

"Look out, Major! I'm after your nose this time," he would smile. "Guard yourself. Here's where I get it!"

"Damned if you do!" the other would cry, feinting desperately, but without avail. Archie always got it.

At first the girl gasped with alarm whenever his glove plopped into smart contact with her father's face or body; but she soon saw that only the skill of the younger man went into these blows, never his strength. Richard Darcy saw it too, and was mortified.

"You're playing off on me, damn your young hide!" he would pant. "You wait—I'll show you yet, I'll show you yet!"

And when on one proud occasion he did "show him," to the extent of bringing an unexpected trickle of blood from Archie's nose, Joan let out a cheer of triumph—in which the victim joined with a will.

"Bully!" he cried. "That was a sockdollager! Dare you to do it again, Major! Doubledare you!"

Seeing him so, the play of powerful muscles under skin as white as a girl's, the joyous grin on his big, plain face, the sheer good-nature of him, intent on giving an older man what he called a "run for his money," and yet as controlledly gentle with him as a great dog playing with a child, Joan began to understand why Johnny Carmichael and his friends were enthusiastic over Archie Blair. He was that rarest of finds, a good playfellow.

The companionship of men with men was something she suddenly envied. Why couldn't women put on gloves and knock some of the pettiness out of each other, the small spites and vanities and jealousies? She would very much have enjoyed letting a little blood out of the nose of, say, Emily Carmichael! In a perfectly friendly spirit, of course....

The boxing matches accomplished several results. They were extremely good for the Major, reducing his waist by several inches and so increasing his staying-powers that he could eat his way through dinner from hors d'oeuvre to crÈme de menthe without losing breath. They were good for Joan, giving her a new perspective on male human nature, which since the episode of Eduard Desmond she had been in danger of regarding rather cynically. And if they weren't altogether good for Archie Blair—well, Archibald was a young man quite accustomed to taking care of himself.

He would have faced greater perils than he did for the privilege of spending a glorious hour under the same roof with Miss Darcy—whom he continued to call "Miss Darcy" even in his secret thoughts, though she had lately formed the delightful habit of addressing him as "Archie."

She had also presented him kindly with a small photograph of herself on a post-card, taken for the purpose of showing Stefan Nikolai the furs he had sent her, and incidentally the ringless condition of her left hand. (It was her answer to his letter about the phagocytes.)

Archie did not exhibit this treasure, even to his friend Ellen Neal, regarding it in the nature of a sacred trust. He had made for it a frame with a little door which locked, and which greatly intrigued the good woman for several days; until she found that the back of it came off quite easily.