He remembered the boy’s, “I love Carlotta.  But I don’t love her enough to let her or you buy me.”  It was true.  Neither he nor his daughter had been able to purchase the lad’s integrity, his good faith, his ideals.  And Harrison Cressy was thankful from the bottom of his heart that it was so.

He turned his steps back to the village and as he did so an oriole flashed out of the shrubbery near him, and passed like a flame out of sight among the trees.  This was a good sign.  Orioles had nested every year in the maple tree by the little white house where Carlotta had been born.  Carlotta herself had always loved them.  “Pretty, pretty, birdie!” she had been wont to call out.  “Come, daddy, let’s follow him and see where he goes.”

He would go home and tell Carlotta all this, make her see that her happiness was in her own hands.  No, it was the boy’s story.  If Carlotta would not follow the orioles and her own heart for Philip Lambert she would not for any argument of his.

By this time a distant puff of smoke gave evidence that the Boston train was already on its way, leaving Harrison Cressy in Dunbury.  Not that he cared.  He had business still to transact ere he departed, a new battle to fight.  He walked with the firm elastic step of a youth back to town.  What did it matter if you were sixty-nine when the best things of life were still ahead of you?

Accordingly Phil was a second time that day surprised by the unheralded arrival of Carlotta’s father, a rather dusty, weary and limp-looking gentleman this time, but exuding a sort of benignant serenity that had not been there early in the day.

“Hello,” greeted the millionaire blandly.  “Missed my train—­got to browsing round the town like an old billy goat.  Not sorry though.  It is a nice little town.  Mind if I sit down?  I’m a bit blown.”  And dropping on a stool Mr. Cressy fanned himself with his panama and grinned at Philip, a grin the young man could not quite fathom.  What new trick had the clever old financier at the bottom of his mind?  Phil hoped he had not got to go through the thing again.  Once had been quite enough for one day.

“Let me send out for something cool to drink, Mr. Cressy.  You must be horribly hot.  It is warm in here, even with all the fans going.  Hi, there, Tommy!” Philip summoned a freckled, red-haired youth from somewhere in the background.  “Run over to Greene’s and get a lemonade for this gentleman, will you?”

“Right, Mr. Phil.”  The boy saluted—­an odd salute, Mr. Cressy noted.  It was rendered with the right hand, the three middle fingers held up, the thumb bent over touching the nail of the little finger.  The saluter stood very straight as he went through the ceremony and looked very serious about it.  “Queer!” thought the onlooker.  The messenger boys he knew did not behave like that when you gave them an order.

Philip excused himself to attend to a customer and in a moment the red-haired lad was back with a tall glass of lemonade clinking delightfully with ice.  Mr. Cressy took it and set it down on the counter while he fumbled for his wallet and produced a dollar bill.