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He had no answer but the sounds that go with tears. He knew by this that his mockings and insinuations had been forgiven.

“Good-night, liddle girl,” he said. “Sleep tight.” His own voice broke. “I be your popper–eh?” he said.

To Barstow’s surprise and disappointment, when he named a time for her first lesson in dancing Daisy refused to go.

“Mrs. Linnevitch thinks I better not be going out nights, Mr. Barstow,” she said. “But thank you ever so much, all the same.”

“Well,” said Barstow, “I’m disappointed. But that’s nothing, if you’re not.”

Daisy blushed. “But I am,” she said.

“Then,” said he, “never mind what they say. Come on!”

Daisy shook her head. “I promised.”

“Look here, Miss Obloski, what’s wrong? Let’s be honest, whatever else we are. Is it because they know something against me, because they think they do, or because they know that they don’t?”

“It’s that,” said Daisy. “Mr. Linnevitch don’t want me to be going out with any one he don’t know about.”

Barstow was obviously relieved. “Thank you,” he said. “That’s all square now. It isn’t Mrs. Linnevitch; it’s the boss. It isn’t going out in general; it’s going out with me!”

Then he surprised her. “The boss is absolutely right,” he said. “I’m for him, and, Miss Obloski, I won’t ask you to trust me until I’ve proved to Linnevitch that I’m a proper guardian—-“

“It’s only Mr. Linnevitch,” said Daisy, smiling very sweetly. “It’s not me. I trust you.” Her eyes were like two serene stars.

Barstow leaned closer and spoke lower. “Miss Obloski,” he said, “Daisy”–and he lingered on the name–“there’s only one thing you could say that I’d rather hear.”

Daisy wanted to ask what that was. But there was no natural coquetry in the girl. She did not dare.

She did not see him again for three whole days; but she fed upon his last words to her until she was ready, and even eager, to say that other thing which alone he would rather hear than that she trusted him.

Between breakfast and dinner on the fourth day a tremendous great man, thick in the chest and stomach, wearing a frock coat and a glossy silk hat, entered the restaurant. The man’s face, a miracle of close shaving, had the same descending look of heaviness as his body. But it was a strong, commanding face in spite of the pouched eyes and the drooping flesh about the jaws and chin. Daisy, busy with her book-keeping, looked up and smiled, with her strong instinct for friendliness.

The gentleman removed his hat. Most of his head was bald. “You’ll be Miss Obloski,” he said. “The top o’ the mornin’ to you, miss. My boy has often spoken of you. I call him my boy bekase he’s been like a son to me–like a son. Is Linnevitch in? Never mind, I know the way.”

He opened, without knocking upon it, the door which led from the restaurant into the Linnevitches’ parlor. Evidently a great man. And how beautifully and touchingly he had spoken of Barstow! Daisy returned to her addition. Two and three are six and seven are twelve and four are nineteen. Then she frowned and tried again.

The great man was a long time closeted with Linnevitch. She could hear their voices, now loud and angry, now subdued. But she could not gather what they were talking about.

At length the two emerged from the parlor–Linnevitch flushed, red, sullen, and browbeaten; the stranger grandly at ease, an unlighted cigar in his mouth. He took off his hat to Daisy, bent his brows upon her with an admiring glance, and passed out into the sunlight.

“Who was it?” said Daisy.

“That,” said Linnevitch, “is Cullinan, the boss–Bull Cullinan. Once he was a policeman, and now he is a millionaire.”

There was a curious mixture of contempt, of fear, and of adulation in Linnevitch’s voice.

“He is come here,” he said, “to tell me about that young feller.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Daisy. “Mr. Barstow?”