. He preferred apple pie to the greatest of artistic triumphs
of his daughter's chef, and had it; a glorified apple pie, with frills
and furbelows, and whipped cream which he angrily swept to one side with
contempt.

"That isn't apple pie," he said. "I'd like to take that Frenchman to
the little New England hilltown where I went to school and show him what
apple pie is."

Such were the autobiographical snatches--by no means so crude as they
sound that reached her intelligence from time to time. Mr. Wing was too
subtle to be crude; and he had married a Playfair, a family noted for
good living. Honora did not know that he was fond of talking of that
apple pie and the New England school at public banquets; nor did Mr.
Wing suspect that the young woman whom he was apparently addressing, and
who seemed to be hanging on his words, was not present.

It was not until she had put her napkin on the table that she awoke
with a start and gazed into his face and saw written there still another
history than the one he had been telling her. The face was hidden,
indeed, by the red beard. What she read was in the little eyes that
swept her with a look of possession: possession in a large sense, let
it be emphasized, that an exact justice be done Mr. James Wing,--she was
one of the many chattels over which his ownership extended; bought
and paid for with her husband. A hot resentment ran through her at the
thought.

Mr. Cuthbert, who was many kinds of a barometer, sought her out later in
the courtyard.

"Your husband's feeling tiptop, isn't he?" said he.

"He's been locked up with old Wing all day. Something's in the wind, and
I'd give a good deal to know what it is."

"I'm afraid I can't inform you," replied Honora.

Mr. Cuthbert apologized.

"Oh, I didn't mean to ask you far a tip," he declared, quite confused.
"I didn't suppose you knew. The old man is getting ready to make another
killing, that's all. You don't mind my telling you you look stunning
tonight, do you?"

Honora smiled.

"No, I don't mind," she said.

Mr. Cuthbert appeared to be ransacking the corners of his brain for
words.

"I was watching you to-night at the table while Mr. Wing was talking to
you. I don't believe you heard a thing he said."

"Such astuteness," she answered, smiling at him, "astounds me."

He laughed nervously.

"You're different than you've ever been since I've known you," he went
on, undismayed. "I hope you won't think I'm makin