roat, very cautiously; and it was evident
that Maltby had not helped us much. Phil, in another vein, helped us
little more.

"I wonder," he asked, "if anyone reads Wordsworth now--except Susan?"

No one, not even Susan, seemed interested in this question; and the
little flames chuckled quietly once more.

Something had to be done.

"Doctor," I began, turning toward Eschatology, and knowing no more than
my Kazak hearthrug what I was going to say, "is it true that----"

"Undoubtedly," intoned Eschatology, thereby saving me from the pit I was
digging for myself. My incomplete question must have chimed with Doctor
Arthur's private reflections, and he seemed to suppose some
controversial matter under discussion. "Undoubtedly," he repeated....
"And what is even more important is this----"

But Lucette silenced him with a "Why is it, dear, that you always let
your cigar burn down at one side? It does look so untidy." And she
leaned to me. "What delightfully daring discussions you must all of you
have here together! You're all so terribly intellectual, aren't you? But
do you never talk of anything but books and art and ideas? I'm sure you
must," she added, fixing me with impenetrable blue eyes.

"Often," I smiled back; "even the weather has charms for us. Even food."

Her inquisitive upper lip curled and dismissed me.

"Why is it," she demanded, turning suddenly on Susan, "that I don't see
you round more with the college boys? They're much more suitable to your
age, you know, than Ambrose or Phil. I hope you don't frighten them off,
my dear, by mentioning Wordsworth? Boys dislike bluestockings; and
you're much too charming to wear them anyway. Oh, but you really are! I
must take charge of you--get you out more where you belong, away from
these dreadful old fogies!" Lucette laughed her languid, purring,
dangerous laughter. "I'm serious, Miss Blake. You musn't let them
monopolize you; they will if you're not careful. They're just selfish
enough to want to keep you to themselves."

The tone was badinage; but the remark struck home and left us
speechless. Lucette shifted the tiller slightly and filled her sails.
"Next thing you know, Miss Blake, they'll be asking you to marry them.
Individually, of course--not collectively. And, of course--not Ambrose!
At least you're safe there," she hastily added; "aren't you?"

Maltby, I saw, was furious; bent on brutalities. Before I could check
him, "Why?" he growled. "Why, Mrs. Ar