Bill Marshall was home from college. He had fought his education to a finish, after a bitter battle that was filled with grueling rounds of uncertainty, and now he returned in triumph to show his prize to Aunt Caroline; not that he valued the prize itself, for it was merely a diploma, but because it represented the end of the business of learning things. He was free now; he could turn his mind and his talents to life itself. Work! Oh, not necessarily. He had not thought about work.

Bill—he was infinitely too large to be called Billy or Willie—had great respect for Aunt Caroline. He wanted her to think well of him. Her home was his. There was excellent reason for the expectation that some day her fortune would be his. There was nobody except Bill to whom it was likely to be given, except for those modest remembrances that go to the old servants who survive mistress and master. Yet Bill was neither mercenary nor covetous; he simply accepted conditions and prospects as they stood, taking it for granted that life was going to be good to him and that there was no need for anxious glances into the future. If Fate chose to make him a sole heir, why struggle against it?

"Why go to the mat with Destiny?" was the sum of Bill's philosophy. "Why go out of your class and get trimmed?"

Aunt Caroline Marshall lived in a once fashionable brownstone cave on lower Fifth Avenue. Her blood was of the bluest, which made her a conservative. She never "took part" in things. When Bill was in college there was nobody in the house except herself and the servants. She used a carriage and team, never an automobile, although she permitted Bill to have his own car as a reluctant concession to the times.

She was proud of her ancestral tree, wore lace caps and went to church every Sunday. She believed that there were still ladies and gentlemen in the world, as well as lower classes. She made preserves and put up her own mince-meat. But for all that there was no severity about Aunt Caroline. She was rather fat and comfortable and tolerant. She liked young people and somehow she had acquired a notion that Bill had a future.

"William," said Aunt Caroline, as she examined the diploma through her gold-rimmed spectacles, "I think you have done very well. If your father were alive I am sure he would say the same thing. I am going to give you a check."

"Oh, don't bother, Aunt Caroline," said Bill grandly. But he knew she would.

"It is so comforting to know that you stood at the head of your class, William."

She alone used "William."

"Why—what?"

"That out of two hundred you were the very first," remarked Aunt Caroline, smoothing her black silk.

Bill was blinking. Was he being joshed by his maiden aunt?

"Why, Aunt Caroline, who——"

"Oh, the young man you brought home told me," and she beamed benevolently. "But the Marshalls always have been a modest family. We let our acts speak for themselves. I suppose I should never have found it out if your valet had not told me. His name is Peter, isn't it?"

So Pete had told her that!

"He appears to be a rather nice young man," added Aunt Caroline. "I am glad you brought him."

Bill was thinking of things to say to Pete.

"While he is, of course, your valet, William, I think we can afford to be rather considerate toward him. It seems so rare nowadays to find a young man with such high aims."

"So?" remarked Bill. This was bewildering. "Just—er—what did he say about his aims, Aunt Caroline?"

"He explained about his theological studies and how he has been earning his way through college, doing work as a valet. It was kind of you, William, to give him employment."

Bill was making the motions of swallowing. Theological studies! Why——

"He takes such a deep interest in the heathen peoples," Aunt Caroline was saying. "While I hate to see a young man bury himself away from civilization, it shows very high Christian principles. There have to be missionaries in the world, of course. He speaks so hopefully about his future life."

"Why—er—oh, yes; he's an optimist, all right, Aunt Caroline."

Bill's large bulk showed signs of considerable agitation, but his aunt did not observe them.

"I gather from what he said, William, that he is something more than just a valet to you. He told me about your talks together on theology. I feel sure that he is going to be a very good influence. He told me about how hard you worked in your classes, and the honors you won, and all the temptations you resisted. He did not say that he helped you to resist them, but he did not need to. I could understand."

Aunt Caroline nodded in confirmation of her own statement.

"I hope he is orthodox," she added. "I shall ask him about that some time."

There was a dull-red in Bill's cheeks. Suddenly he excused himself and bolted. Aunt Caroline reached for the very conservative magazine she affected.

Up-stairs in Bill's room a young man was sprawled on a couch. He was smoking a pipe and staring up at the ceiling as Bill thundered in and slammed the door behind him.

"Pete, what in blazes have you been saying to my aunt?"

The valet grinned, yawned and stretched. Bill jerked a pillow from under his head, gripped him mercilessly by one shoulder and spun him into a sitting posture.

"Ouch! Leggo, you mastodon."

"What have you been saying?" repeated Bill savagely.

"Oh, whatever she told you, I suppose. Two to one I made it stick, anyhow."

Mr. Peter Stearns, who had accompanied Bill home from college, smiled benignly. He was a frail-looking young man, utterly unlike Bill, whose mold was heroic. He was also mild-looking; there was a baffling depth of innocence in his eyes, a placid expression of peace on his lean features. There was even a hint of piety that might pass current among the unwary.

"You filled her up with a lot of bull about me being first in the class and you having religion—you!"

"Didn't she like it?" asked Pete mildly.

"Of course she did, you fool idiot!"

"Then why the roar?"

"Because it's going to make a devil of a mess; that's why. Now we've got to live up to things."

Pete whistled a careless note and shrugged.

"That might be a good stunt, too, Bill."

Bill wheeled away in disgust, then charged back.

"You know as well as I do that we can't live up to it—neither of us. You've filled her bean with a lot of fool notions. Oh, Lord, Pete! I had no business to bring you."

"Bill, answer me this: am I making things more exciting?"

"Exciting! You're making them batty."

"Did I ever fail you?"

"Oh, shut up!"

"Did I ever hesitate to give the best that was in me, Bill?"

"Cut out the bunk; you can't pull it on me. Didn't I have enough trouble getting through college at all? Didn't I just miss getting the razz from the faculty? Didn't they let me through for fear if they didn't I'd come back? And now you butt in and make me the president of the class and one of those magna cum laudÆ guys. Why, you'll have my Aunt Caroline writing to the college to tell 'em how happy she is and how much money she's going to leave 'em!"

Pete made a reassuring gesture.

"No, she won't, Bill. I'll fix that the next time I talk to her. I'll tell her——"

"You won't tell her one damn thing. You've said plenty now. You lay off, do you hear? You—you—divinity student!"

Pete smiled brightly.

"Do you know, Bill, when I did that I honestly believe I pulled off a new stunt. I doubt if it's been done before. Don't sneer, Bill, I mean it. And don't you worry about my getting away with it. I'll swing the job; you watch."

"But why in blazes did you have to start in telling lies?"

"Why, I was only making things softer for you, old man. We'll assume your aunt has always been fond of you, although God knows why. Anyhow, we'll assume it. But she's more than fond of you now, Bill. She thinks you're not only a lovable man mountain, but she also thinks you're the world's leading intellect. Why? Simply because I told an innocent fib that has harmed nobody."

Bill grunted savagely.

"As for the rest of it," remarked Pete, "each of us must carve his own destiny. I carved mine according to such lights as I had at the moment. Your aunt is pleased with me; most ladies are. Tut, Bill; I speak but the simple truth. What there is about me I don't know. Something too subtle for analysis, I fancy. But, anyhow, you old rip, she likes me. In giving myself an excellent character I also aid you, which was something I had particularly in mind. I am always your little helper, Bill; always and forever. Your aunt feels that it confers honor upon you to consort with a young man of religious tendencies. You have risen a hundred per cent, not only as an intellectual, but as a moralist. Why, it's almost like having religion yourself, Bill."

Bill Marshall shook a stern finger of warning.

"You've got to stop it, Pete. I won't stand for it. You'll ruin us."

"Oh, I'll get by," said Pete, comfortably.

"Will you? I think you are riding for a fall. How far will you get if she ever finds out you come from the Stearns family?"

Pete became thoughtful.

"She doesn't like us, does she?"

"She thinks your whole outfit is poison. Understand, Pete; I'm only saying what she thinks. I haven't any of the family prejudice myself."

"That's nice."

"As a matter of fact, I don't know what the trouble is all about, anyhow. It goes away back. It's a sort of an old family feud; I never bothered with it. It's nothing in my life—but it is in Aunt Caroline's. All you've got to do is to mention the name to her and she broadsides. Why, if she knew that I had anything to do with a Stearns I wouldn't last five minutes under this roof."

"I won't tell her, Bill," said Pete, soothingly.

Aunt Caroline's heir presumptive packed a pipe and lighted it. For several minutes he smoked ferociously.

"I'm afraid I've made a mistake in bringing you here at all," he said. "It's bad enough to have you a Stearns, but if she knew you had been expelled from college—well, it can't be expressed. Why did you have to insist on being my valet, anyhow? If you'd just come along as a friend, under any old name, it would have been a lot better."

"No, Bill; I figured that all out. Your Aunt Caroline was suspicious of all college friends; you told me so yourself. She worried about bad company and all that sort of thing. But she won't worry about a poor young man who is working his way in the world and getting ready to reform the heathen. No; I'm better as a valet. Besides, I don't have to give any name except Peter, which is my own. That keeps you from making breaks and saves me from telling a lie."

Bill shook his head gloomily.

"We're off to a bad start," he grumbled. "I don't like it."

"Well, let's be gay and bold about it, anyhow," said Pete. "To become practical, Bill, what sort of accommodations do I draw here? Do I room with you?"

"In your capacity as my valet I imagine you'll get a room in the servants' quarters. Aunt Caroline may put you out in the stable."

"That's a pleasant way to treat a pal," observed Pete.

"Take my tip and get that pal stuff out of your head. You'll forget yourself in front of my aunt some day."

There was a knock at the door and Bill found one of the maids standing in the hall.

"Your aunt would like to see you in the library, Mr. William, if it's convenient," she said.

"I'll be right down."

He turned and glared at Pete.

"I've got a hunch that she's tumbled to you already," he said. "If she has, you'd better go out by that window; it's only a twenty-foot jump."

Pete smiled easily.

"Bet you three to one she hasn't tumbled. Now you trot along, Bill, and cheer up."

Bill could not shake off his premonition of trouble as he walked slowly down-stairs. With disquieting clearness he sensed that all was not right with his world. Nor did this feeling leave him even when Aunt Caroline removed her spectacles and looked up, smiling.

"It's something I just remembered, William. I wanted to speak to you about your secretary."

"Secretary, Aunt Caroline? He's my valet."

"Oh, no; I don't mean Peter. I mean your secretary."

Bill shook his head to signify he did not understand.

"The secretary I am going to engage for you, William."

"What secretary? What would I do with a secretary, Aunt Caroline?"

"Your social secretary," said Aunt Caroline.

"My social—I'm afraid I don't get you, aunty."

"It is very easily explained, William. All persons who lead an active life in society require a secretary."

Bill stared at his benevolent aunt.

"Holy smoke, Aunt Caroline! I'm not in society."

"But you will be, my dear nephew."

"Never!"

"Oh, yes, William—soon."

"But—Aunt Caroline—I don't want to go into society. I haven't any use for it. I'm not built——"

"There, now, William. We must always put our duty before our mere inclinations. It is your duty to enter society."

Bill almost trembled. This was worse than anything his imagination had conjured. He felt deeply dismayed and, at the same time, excessively foolish.

"Duty?" he echoed. "Duty? Why, how in—how can it be a duty, Aunt Caroline? You've got me knocked cold."

She smiled gently and patiently.

"It is your duty to the family, William. It is something your father would wish. He had a distinguished position in society. Your grandfather's position was even more distinguished. Because of the fact that I am a spinster it has not been possible for me to maintain the family tradition. But for you, William—why, the whole world of society is open to you. It is waiting for you."

Aunt Caroline clasped her hands in a spell of ecstasy.

"But, my dear aunt, I don't know anybody in society," groaned Bill.

"A Marshall can go anywhere," she answered proudly.

"But I don't want to. I'm not fit for it. I'd feel like a jay. I can't dance, Aunt Caroline, I can't talk, I can't doll up—hang it! Look at the size of me. I tell you I'm too big for society. I'd step on it; I'd smother it. I'd break it all into pieces."

"William, nonsense!"

"It is not nonsense; it's the goods, Aunt Caroline. Why, I couldn't even sneak in the back way."

"No Marshall ever sneaks in anywhere," said Aunt Caroline, with a trace of sternness that Bill did not miss. When his aunt was stern, which was rare, it was an omen. "The family pride and the family honor are now in your hands, William, and if you are a Marshall you will be true to them."

"But—oh, I want to do something serious," pleaded Bill.

"What, for instance?"

Bill was stalled. He did not know what. It was merely the clutch of a drowning man at a straw.

"You will find that society is serious, very serious," observed Aunt Caroline. "There may be some who think it is frivolous; but not the society in which the Marshalls are known. None of us can escape the heritage of our blood, William; none of us should try. If the world of fashion calls you as a leader, it is simply your destiny calling."

Bill regarded his aunt with horror-stricken eyes. He had never thought of a Destiny garbed in the grotesque. For one awful instant he saw himself the perfect gentleman, moving in a wholly polite and always correct little world, smiling, smirking, carrying ices, going to operas, wearing cutaways and canes, drinking tea, talking smartly, petting lap-dogs, handing damosels into limousines, bowing, dancing, holding the mirror to propriety—he—Bill Marshall—old Walloping Bill. His knees shook. Then he brushed the fearsome picture from his mind.

"Aunt Caroline, it's utterly impossible!"

"William, I have decided."

For a few seconds he faced her, matching her glance. He was red with belligerence; Aunt Caroline had the composure of placid adamant. He knew that look. Again the dread picture began to fashion itself; there was weakness in his soul.

"But listen, Aunt Caroline; I'm such a roughneck——"

"William!"

He made a ponderous gesture of despair and walked out of the library.