He was an impressive figure, tall, erect, and with that suggestion of unbroken health which had had something to do with his success in life.  His hair must have been of a sandy brown, for it had turned, not gray nor white, but that queer no-color that sandy hair does turn, melting into all pale surroundings.  His long face was not vividly colored, either, but was stamped with the immobility of expression that sensitive people in contact with violent life almost always acquire.  The result was that there seemed to be something dead about his face until you saw his eyes, dark and fierce, as if all the fire and energy of the man were concentrated in them.

He was dressed in gray golfing-clothes that smelled more of peat than peat does, and, though officially supposed to be wrestling with the more secret part of correspondence which even his own secretary was not allowed to see, he was actually wiggling a new golf-club over the rug, and toying with the romantic idea that it would enable him to drive farther than he had ever driven before.

There was a knock at the door.  Mr. Cord leaned the driver in a corner, clasped his hands behind his back, straddled his legs a trifle, so that they seemed to grow out of the rug as the eternal oak grows out of the sod, and said, “Come in,” in the tone of a man who, considering the importance of his occupation, bears interruption exceedingly well.

Tomes, the butler, entered.  “Mr. Verriman, sir, to see you.”

“To see me?”

“Yes, sir.”

Cord just nodded at this, which evidently meant that the visitor was to be admitted, for Tomes never made a mistake and Verriman presently entered.  Mr. Cord had seen Eddie Verriman the night before at the ball, and had thought him a very fine figure of a man, so now, putting two and two together, he said to himself, “Is he here to ask my blessing?”

Aloud he said nothing, but just nodded; it was a belief that had translated itself into a habit—­to let the other man explain first.

“I know I’m interrupting you, Mr. Cord,” Verriman began.  Mr. Cord made a lateral gesture with his hand, as if all he had were at the disposal of his friends, even his most precious asset—­time.

“It’s something very important,” Eddie went on.  “I’m worried.  I haven’t slept.  Mr. Cord, have you checked up Crystal’s economic beliefs lately?”

“Lately?” said Mr. Cord.  “I don’t know that I ever have.  Have a cigar?”

Eddie waved the cigar aside as if his host had offered it to him in the midst of a funeral service.

“Well, I have,” he said, as if some one had to do a parent’s duty, “and I’ve been very much distressed—­shocked.  I had a long talk with her about it at the dance last night.”

“About economics?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why, Eddie, don’t I seem to remember your telling me you were in love with Crystal?”

“Yes, Mr. Cord, I am.”