HOW MR. FOPLING WAS INSPIRED
Next to Richard, Dorothy worshiped her father. Women never weigh men
closely; with them it is the kindness of men that counts, and all her
life no one could have been more generously affectionate than was Mr.
Harley to Dorothy. And now her estimate of him became her memory of his
unflagging goodness; and this kept her from harsh judgment as he told
what heartbreaking sacrifices she must make. Nor did she distrust a
syllable; nor would she ask for explanation. The latter she would avoid;
it was enough that Storri held her father at his horrid mercy. As
against the setting forth in detail of Storri's cruel power she
instinctively closed her ears as she would have shut her eyes against a
fearsome sight. Dorothy had never a question; and when Mr. Harley was
done she seemed simply to bow to the will of events too strong for her
to cope with.
"But you must never ask me to marry that man!" cried Dorothy. There went
a tremor through her words that marked how deep of root was the feeling
that prompted them. "I couldn't, wouldn't marry him! Before that, I
would die--yes, and die again! You must not ask it!" and she lifted up
her face, all wrung with pain and anxious terror.
"I shall never ask it!" declared Mr. Harley; and he spoke stoutly, for
the worst was over and his heart was coming back. This gave Dorothy a
better confidence, and she began to hope that things in the end might
come fairer than they threatened. "No," repeated Mr. Harley with even
greater courage, and smoothing her black, thick hair in a fatherly way,
"you shall never be asked to marry the scoundrel. That I promise; and
let him do his worst."
And now, when both were measurably recovered from the shame and the
shock of it, Mr. Harley began to elaborate. He went no further, however,
than just to point out how nothing was really required of Dorothy beyond
those common courtesies good women exhibit to what men the respectable
chances of existence bring into their society. He said nothing, asked
nothing concerning her love for Richard: he appeared to consider that
love admitted, and found no fault with it. What he impressed upon
Dorothy was the present danger of her love's display, and how his safety
rested upon her not meeting with Richard for a space. Surely that might
be borne; it would not be for long. Given room wherein to work, he, Mr.
Harley, would find some pathway out. Also, it would be unwise to say
aught of what had taken place to Dorothy's mother. Mr. Harley and
Dorothy would keep it secret from both Mrs. Hanway-Harley and Senator
Hanway. Storri would not broach the subject to Mrs. Hanway-Harley; he
could not without revealing more than he desired known.
"Nor will the rascal do more," observed Mr. Harley, with the hope of
adding to the fortitude of Dorothy, "than come here now and then to dine
or sit an hour. That is all he will count upon; and before he seeks
anything nearer I'll have him under my foot as now he has me under his.
When that hour comes," concluded Mr. Harley, rapping out a sudden great
oath that made Dorothy start in her frock, "there will be no saving
limits in his favor. I'll apply the torch, and burn him like so much
refuse off the earth."
When Mrs. Hanway-Harley endeavored to break Dorothy to the yoke of her
ambitions concerning Storri, Dorothy sparkled and blazed and wept and
did those divers warlike things that ladies do when engaged in conflict
with each other. Dorothy, down in her heart, attached no more than a
surface importance to the efforts of Mrs. Hanway-Harley; and that was
the reason why on those fierce occasions she only sparkled and blazed
and wept. Now, be it known, what Mr. Harley told her seared like hot
iron; what he asked of kindness to Storri and cruelty to Richard cut
like a knife; and yet there was never tear nor spark to show throughout.
She waited cold and white and steady. Dorothy was convinced of her
father's danger without knowing its cause or what form it might take;
and she filled up with a resolution to do whatever she could, saving
only the acceptance of Storri and his love, to buckler him against it.
Nor was this difference which Dorothy made between Mrs. Hanway-Harley
and Mr. Harley to be marveled at; for just as a mother exerts more
influence over a son than would his father, so will a father have weight
with a daughter beyond any that her mother might possess.
While Dorothy remained firm and brave as Mr. Harley revealed his
troubles and their remedy, she broke down later when she found herself
in her own room. She did not call her maid; she must be alone. What had
transpired began to come over her in such slow fashion that she was
given time to fully feel the ignoble position into which she had fallen.
She must not see the man whom she adored; she must meet--with politeness
even if she could not with grace--the man whom she loathed. To one of
Dorothy's spirit and fineness there dwelt in this an infamy, a baseness,
of which Mr. Harley with his lucky coarseness of fiber escaped all
notice.
Throwing herself on the bed, Dorothy burrowed her face in the pillow and
gave her tears their way. It was the happiest impulse she could have
had; when the tears were dried, and in the calm of that relief which was
their afterglow, she considered what she had to do. Oh! if only she
might have sought her mother with her sorrow! Dorothy shivered; her
mother was the ally of her enemy. How Dorothy hated and feared that
black and savage man! What fiend's power must he possess to thus gain a
fearful mastery over her father! What could be his secret tipped with
terror? Dorothy again buried her face as though she would hide herself
from any blasting chance of its discovery.
When Dorothy was with Mr. Harley she had been in a maze, a whirl.
Wrapped in a cloud of fear, she had reached out blindly through the
awful fog of it and seized upon the dear fact of Richard. By Richard she
held on; by Richard she sustained herself. She entertained no quaking
doubts as to his loyalty; loyal herself, as ever was flower to sun, to
distrust Richard was to doubt the ground beneath her little feet. In her
innocence, she felt that sublime confidence which is the fruit, the
sweet purpose, of a young girl's earliest love. Dorothy must write
Richard a letter; she must tell him of the sad gap in their happiness.
Yes; she would put him in possession of the entire story so far as it
was known to her. He owned a right to hear it. Must his heart be broken,
and he not learn the secret or know the author of the blow?
When Dorothy was again mistress of herself, between sobs and tender
showers she blotted down those words which were to warn Richard from her
side. His love, like her own, would go on; there was to be no final
breaking away. It was faith in a dear day that should find them reunited
which upheld Dorothy through the ordeal of her letter; her prayer was
that the day might be close at hand.
Her letter finished, Dorothy, late as was the hour, sent for Bess; she
must have someone's love, someone's sympathy to lean upon. Bess came;
and, saying no more than she was driven to reveal of her father's
helplessness and Storri's baleful strength, Dorothy told Bess what
dolorous fate had overtaken her.
"I've written Richard to go to you, Bess," whispered Dorothy at the
woeful close. "Have him write me a letter every day; I shall write one
to him. I didn't promise not to write, you know, only not to see him.
But you must not let Richard go to Storri, that above all. Poor Richard!
he is very fierce; and if he were to arouse Storri's anger it would
provoke him to some awful step."
There was a man of robust curiosity who once suggested that it would
prove entertaining if one were to lift the roofs off a city as one might
the upper crust off a pie, and then, looking down into the very bowels
of life, observe what plots and counterplots, defeats and triumphs,
loves and hates, pains and pleasures, losses and gains, hopes and
despairs, honors and disgraces belonged with the struggles of everyday
humanity. It is by no means sure the survey would repay the cost of
making it, and the chances run heavily that the student would gather
more of grief than good from the lesson. Proceeding, however, by the
hint of contradiction furnished above, had one, at the moment when
Storri was binding Mr. Harley by fetters wrought from the metal of Mr.
Harley's own fearful apprehensions, glanced in upon Richard, he would
have found that worthy young gentleman seated by his fireside, soothing
himself with tobacco smoke, and reveling in thoughts of Dorothy. And the
cogitations of Richard, if written down in words, would have read like
this:
"Why should I defer a dénouement that will rejoice them all? Dorothy
loves me--loves me for myself, and for nothing but myself. Who could
have offered deeper proof of it? She has come to me in the face of her
mother, in the face of poverty; she is willing to abandon everything to
become my wife. And if her mother objects--as she does object--why not
cure the objection with a trifle of truth? I am not seeking to make a
conquest of Mrs. Hanway-Harley; that tremendous ambition does not claim
me. I am not to marry her. What she thinks, or why she thinks it, should
not be so important. It is Dorothy whom I love, Dorothy who is to be my
wife--none but Dorothy. No, I'll end a farce which no longer can defend
its own existence. To-morrow I'll seek out my intended mother-in-law,
and make her happy in the only way I may. I trust the good news may not
kill her!" and Richard put on one of those grins of cynicism.
In this frame, Richard retired to bed and dreamed of Dorothy. His heart
was enjoying a prodigious calm; he would no longer play at Democritus;
he would fill Mrs. Hanway-Harley's soul with radiance, restrain to what
extent he might his contempt for that radiance and the reason of it, and
with Dorothy on his arm march away to bliss forever after. No, he would
not have Dorothy to the altar within the moment following the
enthronement of Mrs. Hanway-Harley in the midst of that splendid
happiness he plotted for her. He was not so precipitate. Dorothy should
have a voice and a will in fixing her marriage day; most young women
had. But he would advise expedition--nay, he would pray for speed in the
matter of that wedlock; for every hour that barred him from his loved
one's arms would seem an age.
Thus dreamed Richard. And in the irony of fate, even while Richard was
coming to these sage, not to say delicious, decisions and giving himself
to these dreams, Storri was raving, Mr. Harley was cowering, and Dorothy
was weeping and writing that they must not meet.
When Richard arose in the morning, the first object his fond eye caught
was that dear hand-write sprawling all across the envelope: "Mr. Richard
Storms." He tore it open, and this is what he read:
Dear One:
As I write, my heart is breaking for us both. If I knew how, I
would soften what I must say. Storri has gained some fearful
ascendency over papa. Never have I seen papa look so gray and worn
and old as when he came to me. He tells me that his safety, his
life, depend on me. I am not to see you for a while. He says that
if we meet it will mean his disgrace--his destruction. I can't
explain; I have only my love for you, sweetheart, and you must not
fail me now. It will all come right, I feel sure of that; only you
must write me every day how dear I am to you, so that I shall have
something to help my courage with. Go to Bess, and believe me yours
with all my heart's love.
D.
Richard read and re-read Dorothy's note. He did not ramp off into a
temper; the first effects of it were to drive the color out of his face
and steal away his appetite. His eye grew moody, and in the end angry.
Some flame of wrath was kindled against poor Dorothy, who was so
ready--that is the way he put it to himself--to sacrifice him in defense
of her father. But the flame went out, and never attained either height
or intensity as a flame of repute and standing among flames. Richard was
too normal, too healthy, too much in love. Besides, Dorothy's note was
warped and polka-dotted with small round scars where her poor tears had
fallen as she wrote; and with that the flame of anger was quenched by
the mere sight of those tear-scars; and Richard kissed them one by
one--the tear-scars--and found, when he had kissed the last one and then
kissed it again for love and for luck, that he worshiped Dorothy the
more for being in trouble. And now Richard felt a vast yearning over her
as though she were a child. Had she not fought a gallant war with her
mother for love of him? Richard was all but swept away on a very tide of
tenderness. He would comply with Dorothy's requests; he would not press
to see her; he would write her every day; he would love her more
passionately than before. Incidentally, he would go questing Bess.
Richard did not permit himself to dwell upon Storri. He knew him for the
source of all this poison in his cup. In his then temper, he put Storri
out of his thought. He feared that if he considered that Russian too
long he would be drawn into some indiscretion that, while curing
nothing, might pull down upon Mr. Harley, and in that way upon Dorothy,
the catastrophe that hung over their heads. There could be no doubt of
the black measure of that catastrophe, whatever it might be. Richard,
while no mighty admirer of Mr. Harley, had been enough in that
gentleman's company to realize that it was more than a common
apprehension which had sent him, limp and fear-shaken, to Dorothy
begging for defense. The longer Richard pondered, the clearer the truth
grew that some deadly chance was pending against Mr. Harley, and that
Storri held the key which might unlock that chance against him. Until he
understood the trend of affairs, a hostile collision with Storri would
be the likeliest method by which disaster might be invoked. He must
avoid Storri. This prudence on Richard's part went tremendously against
the grain, for he was full of stalwart, primitive impulses that moved
him to find Storri by every shortest cut and beat him to rags. He must
keep away from Storri. Also, he would defer those revelations to Mrs.
Hanway-Harley which were to have filled her soul with that radiance and
made her as ready for Dorothy's marriage with Richard as was Richard
himself. Those confidences could not aid now when it was Storri, not
Mrs. Hanway-Harley, who stood in the way. And they might even work a
harm. Richard went on his road to Bess, while these thoughts came flying
thick as twilight bats.
Richard found the blonde sorceress bending above a flower, and doing
something to the flower's advantage with a pair of scissors. As Bess
hung over the leafy object of her solicitude, with her yellow wealth of
hair coiled round and round, she herself looked not unlike a graceful,
gaudy chrysanthemum. This poetic reflection, which would have been
creditable to Mr. Fopling, never occurred to Richard; he was too full of
Dorothy to have room for Bess. However, the good Bess found no fault
with his loving preoccupation; she, too, was pensively thinking on poor
Dorothy, and at once abandoned the invalid flower to console and counsel
Richard.
"For you see," quoth Bess, as though a call had been made for the reason
of her interest in another's love troubles, "I feel responsible for
Dorothy. It was I who told you to love her."
This was not quite true, and gave too much blame or credit--whichever
you will--to Bess; but Richard made no objections, and permitted Bess to
define her position as best pleased her.
Bess laid out Richard's programme as though she were his mother or his
guardian; she told him what his conduct should be. He must write Dorothy
a daily letter; there ought to be a world of love in it, Bess thought,
in view of those conditions of present distress which surrounded
Dorothy.
"Her lot," observed Bess, "is much harder than yours, you know!"
Richard, being selfish, did not know; but he was for no dispute with
Bess and kept his want of knowledge to himself. Yes; Richard was to
write Dorothy every day; and she, for her sweet part, was likewise to
write Richard every day. The good Bess, like an angel turned postman,
would manage the exchange of tender missives.
Bess said nothing about Storri's coming visits to the Harley house or
that he would insist on seeing Dorothy. She and Dorothy had been of one
mind on that point of ticklish diplomacy. The bare notion of Storri
meeting Dorothy would send the fiery lover into a fury whereof the end
could be only feared, not guessed. Richard was to be told nothing beyond
the present impossibility of meeting Dorothy.
"And most of all," said Bess to Richard warningly, "you are not to
involve yourself with Storri. Remember, should you and he have
differences upon which the gossips can take hold, there will be a
perfect scandal, and Dorothy the central figure."
Richard was horrified at Bess's picture.
"And so," concluded Bess, "you must do exactly as Dorothy requests. Have
a little patience and a deal of love, and the cloud, be sure, will pass
away."
"While I am having patience and love, I would give my left hand if I
might bring that cobra Storri to account," said Richard.
What was written concerning the mouths of babes and sucklings? Mr.
Fopling sat with Bess and Richard while they considered those
above-related ways and means of interrupted love. Mr. Fopling was
experiencing an uncommon elevation of spirits; for he had stared Ajax
out of countenance--a notable feat--and sent the rival favorite growling
and bristling from the room. Usually Mr. Fopling took no part in what
conversations raged around him; it was the reason of some surprise,
therefore, to both Bess and Richard when, at the mention of Storri's
name, Mr. Fopling's ears pricked up a flicker of interest and he
betrayed symptoms of being about to speak.
"Stow-wy!" exclaimed Mr. Fopling thoughtfully, as though identifying
that nobleman, while Bess and Richard looked on as do folk who behold a
miracle, "Stow-wy! I say, Stawms, why don't you go into Wall Stweet and
bweak the beggah? He's always gambling, don't y' know! Bweak him; that's
the way to punish such a fellah."
"Why! what a malicious soul you have grown!" cried Bess in astonishment.
"Really, Algy,"--Mr. Fopling's name was Algernon,--"if you burst on us
in this guise often, I for one shall stand in terror of you!"
"But, weally," protested Mr. Fopling, "if you want to get even with a
fellah, Bess, just bweak him! It's simply awful, they say, for a chap to
be bwoke. As for this Stow-wy, if Stawms hasn't got the money to go
aftah him, I'll let him have some of mine. You see, Bess," concluded Mr.
Fopling, with a broad candor that proved his love, "I hate this cweature
Stow-wy."
"Why?" asked Richard, somewhat interested in his unexpected ally.
"He spoke dewisively of me," and with that Mr. Fopling lapsed.
Richard went slowly homeward, his chin on his chest, not in
discouragement, but thought. The counsel of the vacuous Mr. Fopling
followed him to ring in his ears like words of guidance.
"Bweak him!" squeaked Mr. Fopling, feebly vicious.
Since Mr. Fopling had never been known to think anything or say anything
anterior to this singular outburst, the conclusion forced itself upon
Richard that Mr. Fopling was inspired. Nor could Richard put Mr. Fopling
and his violent advice out of his head.
"Money is the villain's heart's-blood!" thought Richard. "I'm inclined
to conclude that Fopling is right. If I take his money from him, he is
helpless--a viper without its fangs, a bear with its back broken!"
Richard put in that evening in his own apartments. Had you been there to
watch his face, you would have been struck by the capacity for hate and
love and thought displayed in the lowering brow and brooding eye.
Richard smoked and considered; at eight o'clock he rang for Mr. Gwynn.
That precise gentleman of stiffness and English immobility appeared,
clothed in extreme evening dress, and established himself, ramrod-like,
in a customary spot in the center of the floor. There was a figure on
the Persian rug whereon Mr. Gwynn never failed to take position. Once in
place, eye as expressionless as the eye of a fish, Mr. Gwynn would wait
in dead silence for Richard to speak.
Mr. Gwynn had occupied his wonted spot on the rug two minutes before
Richard came out of his reverie. Turning to Mr. Gwynn, he addressed him
through murky wreaths.
"I shall go to New York to-morrow."
"Very good, sir," said Mr. Gwynn, and his back creaked in just the
specter of a bow.
"When are the President and General Attorney of the Anaconda to be
here?"
"Tuesday, sir; the eighth of the month."
"I shall return before that time."
"Very good, sir!" and Mr. Gwynn again approved the utterances of Richard
with a creaky mandarin inclination of the head and shoulders.
"They will arrive on the eighth. Say to them that they must remain until
the fifteenth, one week. On Thursday--the tenth--you will give a dinner
in honor of Senator Hanway; it is to be fifty covers. The Anaconda
people will come. I'll furnish you the completed list of guests when I
get back."
"Very good, sir."
"You may go."
"Yes, sir; you are very kind, sir;" and the austere Mr. Gwynn creaked
himself out.
Richard was left with his thoughts, while the silent Matzai, who had
heard the word New York, began packing what trunks were needed for the
journey.
Storri was ruthlessly eager to get some taste of his great triumph, and
came that same evening to the Harley house. Senator Hanway had been
detained by a night session, and the quartette--Dorothy, Mr. Harley,
Mrs. Hanway-Harley, and Storri--sat together at dinner. Dorothy, pale
and still and chill, was like a girlish image made of snow. There was a
queer look of fright and shame and horror all in one about her virgin
eyes. How she got through the dinner she could not have told, and only
her love for her father held her up.
Mr. Harley was in no livelier case; and, albeit he drank much more than
usual, the wine put no color in his muddy cheek nor did it cure its
flabbiness. To sit at his own table and tremble before his own guest
might have wasted the spirits of even a hardier man than Mr. Harley.
Dorothy was in agony--a kind of despair of shame, eating nothing, saying
less, and this attracted the shallow attention of Mrs. Hanway-Harley.
"What makes you so gloomy, Dorothy?" she asked. Mrs. Hanway-Harley was
in most cheerful feather. A nobleman at her table, and though for the
fortieth time, was ever fresh and delightful to Mrs. Hanway-Harley. "You
are not ill?" Then, with arch politeness to Storri: "She has been out of
sorts all day, Count, and given us all the blues. I was delighted when
you came in to cheer us up."
"It is to my great honor, madam," responded Storri, smiling and fixing
Dorothy with that beady glance which serpents keep for what linnets they
mean to fascinate and swallow, "it is to my great honor, madam, that you
say so. I shall tell my Czar of your charming goodness to his Storri. If
I might only think that the bewitching Miss Dorothy was also glad, I
should be in heaven! Truly, it would make a paradise; ah, yes, why not!"
As Storri threw off this languishing speech, Dorothy could feel his eyes
like points of hateful fire piercing her satirically. It taught her
vaguely, even through the torture her soul was undergoing, that
composite sentiment of passion and cruelty felt for her by this Tartar
in evening dress who mixed sneer with compliment in all he said. Dorothy
could have shrieked out in the mere torment of it, and only the sight of
Mr. Harley, broken and hopeless and helpless and old, gave her strength
and courage to refrain.
Storri departed on the heels of dinner to the profound regret of Mrs.
Hanway-Harley, who pressed him to remain. The Russian was wise; he must
not attempt too much. Dorothy should have respite for a week. In seven
days he would again take dinner with the Harleys. Dorothy would have
employed those seven days in thinking on the perils to her father which
he, Storri, could launch; she would have considered how he, Storri, must
be courted and flattered and finally loved to insure her father's
safety. It was victory as it stood. Was he not compelling the proud
Dorothy to receive his compliments, his glances, his sighs, his love?
Was not Richard, the detestable, excluded, and the Harley door closed
fast in his face? Ah! Storri would impress upon these little people the
terrors of him whom they had affronted! He would cause them to mourn in
bitterness the day they heard first his name!
Storri, in midswing of all these comforting ruminations, felt a light
hand on his arm. He was sauntering leisurely along the street at the
time, and had not journeyed a block from the Harley house.
Storri started at the touch, and wheeled.
"What!" he exclaimed, "is it you, my San Reve? And what fetched you out
so cold an evening?"
Storri attempted a manner of light and confident assurance. Somehow, he
did not altogether attain it; a sharp ear would have caught the false
note in his tones which told of an uneasiness he was trying to conceal.
That one whom Storri addressed as San Reve and who, following the touch
that startled Storri, had taken his arm, was a woman. In the dark of the
winter evening, nothing could be known of her save that she was above a
middle height.
"Yes; it is I, Sara," said the woman, in a pure contralto. "Come with me
to-night, Storri; I have not seen you for four days."
"We are pleasantly met!" cried Storri, still affecting an acquiescent
gayety. "And is it not strange? I was on my way to your fond, sweet
presence, my San Reve. Yes, your Storri was flying to you even now!"
All of which were lies, being leaf and stalk of that uneasiness which
rang so falsely in his voice and manner. Still, if Mademoiselle San Reve
took notice of his insincerity, she kept the fact to herself. Storri
drew her hand further within his arm, and the two walked slowly onward,
while the street lamps as they passed merged and separated and again
merged and separated their shadows as though the pair were agreeing and
disagreeing in endless alternation.
Richard, the next day, departed for New York as he had planned. Sending
Matzai and his luggage to the hotel, Richard on his arrival drove
straight from the station to Thirty, Broad. He glanced at a card as he
entered the elevator.
"Tenth floor!" was his word to the resplendent functionary in gold and
blue who presided in the elevator.
"Tenth floor!" cried the resplendent functionary in the sing-song of a
seaman taking soundings and calling the marks, and the elevator came to
a kind of bouncing stop.
"Mr. Bayard?" inquired Richard.
"Second floor to th' left," sang the blue and golden one; then the iron
door clashed and the cage flew on.
Richard entered a reception room, and from this outer harbor, like a
newly arrived ship sending up a signal, he dispatched his card to Mr.
Bayard. Under "Mr. Richard Storms" he wrote the words, "son of the late
Mr. Dudley Storms."
The stealthy, whispering individual, who spoke with a hiss and
scrutinized Richard as he took his card with a jealous intensity which
might have distinguished a hawk in a state of half alarm and whole
suspicion, presently returned. His air was altered to one of confidence.
"You are to come in, please!" he hissed like a respectful snake.
It was two hours later, five o'clock, when Richard emerged from that
private room of Mr. Bayard's. Taking the carriage which had waited, he
returned to the station and caught a train for Washington. A message
went to Matzai notifying that Mongol of what changes had been determined
on in the destinies of himself and the luggage.
It was the following morning at the hour of eight. Richard called for
Mr. Gwynn. When that severe personage had taken his proper station on
the rug, he rolled his piscatorial eye on Richard as though inviting
notice. The latter young gentleman was improving himself with coffee,
now and then pausing to thoughtfully glance over a roll of names.
"What were the last quotations on Anaconda stock?" demanded Richard,
still contemplating the names.
"Common, two hundred and eleven; preferred, two hundred and seventeen,
sir," and Mr. Gwynn creaked by way of ending the sentence.
"Here are the keys to my boxes in the Colonial Trust. Here also are the
names of fifty New York banks. Please establish a credit of two millions
in each of them--one hundred millions of dollars in all. Use Anaconda
stock. Bring me certified checks for the one hundred millions, with a
statement from each bank showing what Anaconda shares it holds as
security. I think you understand. I want one hundred millions instantly
available. You will go to New York at once and make the arrangements.
Day after to-morrow meet me in Mr. Bayard's rooms, Thirty, Broad, at
three o'clock P. M., with everything as I have outlined."
"Very good, sir; you are very kind, sir," creaked Mr. Gwynn.