"Don't!" cries his daughter. "Don't make me ashamed of you." Then she says more calmly: "What have you done about your families out there?"
"Oh, they're provided for well!" remarks Ralph. "I believe one of them, the genuine Mrs. Travenion"—he winces a little at the title—"would have made me trouble, but I think the Church instructed her to let me alone; I know a few secrets of theirs that make them quite amiable to me, now I'm out of their clutches. Their delegate to congress, the one who has four wives in Utah, and declares he is not a polygamist in Washington, might not like me to explain what I know of his large family," chuckles the old gentleman.
But for all this, he does not tell the story of Bishop Tranyon, the New York dandy, very often.
His guess about Oliver Livingston, however, was a shrewd one. For chancing to be on the Governing Committee of the Unity when Lawrence's name comes up for membership, he sneaks in a black-ball, as many another prig and coward, from envy and malice and uncharitableness, has done before, and will do to come.
But this doesn't count much, for Ferdie, who chances to be its youngest member, has gone about with his winning manner and boyish frankness, and has button-holed everybody, saying, "Hang it! You must put Harry Lawrence through. He's the man who saved my life. He's from the wild and woolly West, but some day he's going to make New York howl!"
So Lawrence goes in.
Though he doesn't do quite as much as Ferdie has promised for him—for he is too happy to be inordinately ambitious—and is contented to be a successful railroad director, and have a yacht on the water and a villa in Newport, and a town-house on the avenue, and to be the husband of Miss Dividends.