was almost doleful. Jack Cardigan had broken a splashboard, as far as he could make out, and would not be "fit" for some time. She could not get used to the idea. "Did Profond ever get off?" he said suddenly.

"He got off," replied Winifred, "but where I don't know."

Yes, there it was-impossible to tell anything! Not that he wanted to know. Letters from Annette were coming from Dieppe, where she and her mother were staying.

"You saw that fellow's death, I suppose?"

"Yes," said Winifred. "I'm sorry for --for his children. He was very amiable." Soames uttered a rather queer sound. A suspicion of the old deep truth-that men were not judged in this world by what they did, but by what they were crept and knocked resentfully at the back door of his mind.

"I know there was a superstition to that effect," he muttered.

"One must do him justice now he's dead."

"I should like to have done him justice before," said Soames; "but I never had the chance. Have you got a 'Baronetage' here?"

"Yes; in that bottom row."

again.
member."
"Did it win?”

He was rather smart, if I re

"No; it ran last, I think. You know Monty really was quite clever in his way.'

"Was he?" said Soames. "Can you see any connection between a sucking baronet and publishing?"

"People do all sorts of things nowadays," replied Winifred. "The great stunt seems not to be idle so different from our time. To do nothing was the thing then. But I suppose it'll come again."

"This young Mont that I'm speaking of is very sweet on Fleur. If it would put an end to that other affair I might encourage it."

"Has he got style?" asked Winifred. "He's no beauty; pleasant enough, with some scattered brains. There's a good deal of land, I believe. He seems genuinely attached. But I don't know."

"No," murmured Winifred; "it's very difficult. I always found it best to do nothing. It is such a bore about Jack; now we shan't get away till after Bank holiday. Well, the people are always amusing, I shall go into the Park and watch them.'

"If I were you," said Soames, "I should

"Mont-Sir Lawrence, 9th. Bt. cr. 1620. e. s. of Geoffrey 8th. Bt. and Lavinia daur. of Sir Charles Muskham Bt. of Muskham Hall, Shrops: marr. 1890 Emily, daur. of Conway Charwell Esq. of Condaford Grange, co. Oxon; 1 son, heir Michael Conway, b. 1895, 2 daurs. Residence: Lippinghall Manor, Folwell, Bucks: Clubs: Snooks: Coffee House: Aeroplane. See Bidlicott."

"H'm!" he said; "did you ever know a publisher?"

"Uncle Timothy." "Alive, I mean."

"Monty knew one at his Club. He brought him here to dinner once. Monty was always thinking of writing a book, you know, about how to make money on the turf. He tried to interest that man.' "Well?"

"He put him on to a horse-for the Two Thousand. We didn't see him

"The country bores me," answered Winifred, "and I found the railway strike quite exciting."

Winifred had always been noted for sang-froid.

Soames took his leave. All the way down to Reading he debated whether he should tell Fleur of that boy's father's Ideath. It did not alter the situation except that he would be independent now, and only have his mother's opposition to encounter. He would come into a lot of money, no doubt, and perhaps the house

the house built for Irene and himself— the house whose architect had wrought his domestic ruin. His daughter-mistress of that house! That would be poetic justice! Soames uttered a little mirthless laugh. He had designed that house to re-establish his failing union, meant it for the seat of his descendants,

if he could have induced Irene to give him one! Her son and Fleur! Their children would be, in some sort, offspring of the union between himself and her!

The theatricality in that thought was repulsive to his sober sense. And yet it would be the easiest and wealthiest way out of the impasse, now that Jolyon was gone. The juncture of two Forsyte fortunes had a kind of conservative charm. And she-Irene-would be linked to him once more. Nonsense! Absurd! He put the notion from his head.

On arriving home he heard the click of billiard-balls; and through the window saw young Mont sprawling over the table. Fleur, with her cue akimbo, was watching with a smile. How pretty she looked! No wonder that young fellow was out of his mind about her. A title-land! There was little enough in land, these days; perhaps less in a title. The old Forsytes had always had a kind of contempt for titles, rather remote and artificial things-not worth the money they cost, and having to do with the Court. They had all had that feeling in differing measure Soames remembered. Swithin, indeed, in his most expansive days had once attended a Levee. He had come away saying he shouldn't go again "all that small fry." It was suspected that he had looked too big in knee-breeches. Soames remembered how his own mother had wished to be presented because of the fashionable nature of the performance, and how his father had put his foot down with unwonted decision. What did she want with that peacocking-wasting time and money; there was nothing in it!

The instinct which had made and kept the British Commons the chief power in the State, a feeling that their own world was good enough and a little better than any other because it was their world, had kept the old Forsytes singularly free of "flummery," as Nicholas had been wont to call it when he had the gout. Soames' generation, more self-conscious and ironical, had been saved by a sense of Swithin in knee-breeches. While the third and the fourth generation, as it seemed to him, laughed at everything.

However, there was no harm in the young fellow's being heir to a title and estate a thing one couldn't help. He

entered quietly, as Mont missed his shot. He noted the young man's eyes, fixed on Fleur bending over in her turn; the adoration in them almost touched him.

She paused with the cue poised on the bridge of her slim hand, and shook her crop of short dark chestnut hair. "I shall never do it." "Nothing venture.""

"All right." The cue struck, the ball rolled. "There!"

"Bad luck! Never mind!"

Then they saw him, and Soames said: "I'll mark for you.'

He sat down on the raised seat beneath the marker, trim and tired, furtively studying those two young faces. When the game was over Mont came up to him.

"I've started in, Sir. Rum game, business, isn't it? I suppose you saw a lot of human nature as a solicitor." "I did."

"Shall I tell you what I've noticed: People are quite on the wrong track in offering less than they can afford to give; they ought to offer more, and work backward."

Soames raised his eyebrows.

"Suppose the more is accepted?"

"That doesn't matter a little bit," said Mont; "it's much more paying to abate a price than to increase it. For instance, say we offer an author good terms-he naturally takes them. Then we go into it, find we can't publish at a decent profit and tell him so. He's got confidence in us because we've been generous to him, and he comes down like a lamb, and bears us no malice. But if we offer him poor terms at the start, he doesn't take them, so we have to advance them to get him, and he thinks us damned screws into the bargain."

"Try buying pictures on that system"; said Soames, "an offer accepted is a contract-haven't you learned that?"

Young Mont turned his head to where Fleur was standing in the window.

"No," he said, "I wish I had. Then there's another thing. Always let a man off a bargain if he wants to be let off." "As advertisement?" said Soames dryly.

"Of course it is; but I meant on principle."

"Does your firm work on those lines?"

"Not yet," said Mont, "but it'll come." "And they will go."

"No, really, Sir. I'm making any number of observations, and they all confirm my theory. Human nature is consistently underrated in business, people do themselves out of an awful lot of pleasure and profit by that. Of course, you must be perfectly genuine and open, but that's easy if you feel it. The more human and generous you are the better chance you've got in business." Soames rose.

"Are you a partner?"

"Not for six months, yet."

"Oh!"

In her startled, frowning face, he saw the instant struggle to apprehend what this would mean.

"Poor Jon! Why didn't you tell me, Father?"

"I never know!" said Soames slowly; "you don't confide in me."

"I would, if you'd help me, dear."
"Perhaps I shall."

Fleur clasped her hands. "Oh ! darling -when one wants a thing fearfully, one doesn't think of other people. Don't be angry with me."

Soames put out his hand, as if pushing

Mont laughed.

"You'll see," he said. "There's going to be a big change. The possessive principle has got its shutters up."

"What?" said Soames.

"The house is to let! Good-bye, Sir; I'm off now."

Soames watched his daughter give her hand, saw her wince at the squeeze it received, and distinctly heard the young man's sigh as he passed out. Then she came from the window, trailing her finger along the mahogany edge of the billiardtable. Watching her, Soames knew that she was going to ask him something. Her finger felt round the last pocket, and she looked up.

"Have you done anything to stop Jon writing to me, Father?"

Soames shook his head.

"I'm cogitating," he said. What on earth had made him use a word like that! "Has young Mont been bothering you again?

Fleur smiled. "Oh! Michael! He's always bothering; but he's an awfully good sort-I don't mind him."

"Well," said Soames, "I'm tired; I shall go and have a nap before dinner."

He went up to his picture-gallery, lay down on the couch there, and closed his eyes. A terrible responsibility this girl of his-whose mother was-ah! what was she? A terrible responsibility! Help her-how could he help her? He could not alter the fact that he was her father. Or that Irene ! What was it young Mont had said-some nonsense about the possessive instinct-shutters up- To let? Silly!

N writing of my brother in the White House various scenes stand out with special clearness. The first night he spent there comes back with a tender aroma of his love for his sisters and his loyal memory of his father.

The deed of the cowardly assassin had done its work; William McKinley was dead. The young Vice-President had made the hazardous flying trip from the heart of the Adirondack Mountains, had taken the solemn oath in Buffalo, had followed the body of his late chief to its final resting-place, and had returned to Washington. From Washington he telegraphed to my husband and myself-with the love and thought which he always showed-and told us that as Mrs. Roosevelt was attending to last important matters at Sagamore Hill she could not be with him the day he was to move into the White House, and that he was very anxious that not only my sister Mrs. Cowles and her husband but that we also should dine with him the first night that he slept in the old mansion. So we went on to Washington and shared with him that first meal in the house for which he had such romantic attachment because it had sheltered the hero of his boyhood and his manhood, Abraham Lincoln. As we sat around the table he turned and said: "Do you realize this is the birthday of our father, September 22? I have realized it, as I signed various papers all day long, and I feel that it is a very good omen that I should begin my duties in this house on this day. I feel as if my father's hand

VOL. LXX.-6

were on my shoulder, and as if there were a special blessing over the life I am to lead here."

Almost as he finished this sentence the coffee was passed to us, and at that time it was the habit at the White House to pass, with the coffee, a little boutonnière to each gentleman. As the flowers were passed to the President, the one given to him was a yellow saffronia rose for his buttonhole. His face flushed, and he turned again and said: "Is it not strange! This is the rose we all connect with my father." And my sister and I responded eagerly that over and over again in the past we had seen our father pruning the rose-bush of saffronia roses with special care. He always picked one for his buttonhole from that bush; and whenever we gave him a rose we gave him one of that kind. Again my brother said with a very serious look on his face: "I think there is a blessing connected with this." And surely it did seem as if there were a blessing connected with those years of Theodore Roosevelt in the White House, those merry, happy years of family life, those ardent, loving years of public service, those splendid peaceful years of international amity. A blessing there surely was over that house.

Nothing could have been harder to the temperament of Theodore Roosevelt than to have come "through the cemetery," as Peter Dunne said in his prophetic article, a few months before, to the high position of President of the United States. What he had achieved in the past had been absolutely through his own merits; what he would have wished to achieve in the fu

81

ture would not, with his will, have come to him "through dead men's shoes." During the early years of his occupancy of the White House he strove in every possible way to fulfil the policies of his predecessor, retaining the former's appointees, and working with conscientious loyalty as much as possible along the lines followed by the martyred President. In April, 1903, however, he started upon a great trip, and at that time felt that as the years of his inherited incumbency were drawing to a close he could preach his own gospel.

After that exhausting trip, replete with many thrilling experiences, he returns to Oyster Bay for a little rest, and writes spontaneously in September of the beautiful family life which was always led there. My boy Stewart was with him at the time, and he speaks of him affectionately in connection with his own "Ted," who was Stewart's intimate friend.

"Stewart, Ted, and I took an hour and a half bareback ride all together this morning. Ted is always longing that Stewart should go off on a hunting trip with him. I should be delighted to have them go now. Although I have no doubt they would get into scrapes, I have also no doubt that they would get out of them. We have had a lovely summer, as lovely a summer as we have ever passed.... All the children have enjoyed their various activities, and we have been a great deal with the children, and in addition to that, Edith and I have ridden on horseback much together, and have frequently gone off for a day at a time in our little row boat, not to speak of the picnics to which everybody went.

"In the intervals I have chopped industriously. I have seen a great many people who came to call upon me on political business. I have had to handle my correspondence of course, and I have had not a few wearing matters of national policy, ranging from the difficulties in Turkey to the scandals in the Post Office. But I have had three months of rest, of holiday, by comparison with what has gone before. Next Monday I go back to Washington, and for the thirteen months following, there will be mighty little letup to the strain. But I enjoy it to the full.

"What the outcome will be as far as I am personally concerned, I do not know. It looks as if I would be renominated; whether I shall be re-elected I haven't the slightest idea. I know there is bitter opposition to me from many sources. Whether I shall have enough support to overcome this opposition, I cannot tell. I suppose few Presidents can form the slightest idea whether their policies have met with approval or not. Certainly I cannot. But as far as I can see, these policies have been right, and I hope that time will justify them. If it doesn't, why I must abide the fall of the dice, and that is all there is to it. Ever yours, T. R."

That letter is very characteristic of his attitude. Strain-yes; hard work-yes; but equally "I enjoy it to the full!" Equally also is he willing to abide by the "fall of the dice," having done what he fully believed to have been the right thing for the country.

That December, the day after Christmas, he writes again:

"Darling Sister: I so enjoyed seeing you here, but I have been so worried about you. I am now looking forward to Stewart's coming, and to seeing Helen and Ted. But I do wish you would take a rest.

"We had a delightful Christmas yesterday, just such a Christmas as thirty or forty years ago we used to have under Father's and Mother's supervision in 20th St. and then 57th Street. At seven all the children came in to open the big, bulging stockings in our bed; Kermit's terrier, Allan, a most friendly little dog, adding to the children's delight by occupying the middle of the bed. From Alice to Quentin, each child was absorbed in his or her stocking, and Edith certainly managed to get the most wonderul stocking toys. . . . Then after breakfast we all went into the library, where the bigger toys were on separate tables for the children. I wonder whether there ever can come in life a thrill of greater exaltation and rapture than that which comes to us, say between the ages of six and fourteen, when the library doors are thrown open and one walks in to see all the gifts, like