still satisfaction. The
linen of the table had been woven by the nuns of the Lavra at Kiev;
the soup-bowls were from Cracow; there was nothing in the place that
had not its quality and distinction. And Mr. Baruch fitted it as a
snail fits its shell. It was his shell, for, like a snail, he had
exuded it from his being and it was part of him.

"I saw a carpet to-day," he said abruptly. There was Black Sea salmon
on his plate, and he spoke above a laden fork.

"Yes?" The big, quiet woman did not so much inquire as invite him to
continue. Mr. Baruch ate some salmon. "A carpet yes," he said
presently. "Real like Diamonds, like you, Adina, I no mistake."

At the compliment, she lowered her head and raised it again in a
motion like a very slow nod. Mr. Baruch finished his salmon without
further words.

"And?" Upon her unfinished question he looked up.

"Yes," he said; "surely! In a few days I shall bring it home."

Her large eyes, the docile eyes of the slave-wife, acclaimed him. For
her there were no doubts, no judgments; the husband was the master,
the god of the house. Mr. Baruch continued his meal to its end.

"And now," he said presently, when he had finished, "you will go to
bed."

She stood up forthwith, revealing again her majestic stature and
pose. Mr. Baruch sat at his end of the table with his tiny cup of
coffee and his thimble-like glass before him. He lifted his eyes and
gazed at her appreciatively, and, for a moment, there lighted in his
face a reflection of what Selby and Miss Pilgrim might have seen in
it, had they known how to look, when first he realized the silken
glories of the carpet. The woman, returning his gaze, maintained her
pale, submissive calm.

"Blessings upon you!" he said, dismissing her.

She lowered her splendid head in instant obedience.

"Blessings," she replied, "and again blessings! Have sweet sleep,
lord and husband!"

He sat above his coffee and his liqueur and watched her superb body
pass forth from the little room. She did not turn to look back; they
are not trained to coquetry, those chattel-women of the Caucasus. Mr.
Baruch smiled while he let the sweetish and violently strong liqueur
roll over his tongue and the assertively fragrant coffee possess his
senses. His wife was a "find," a thing perfect of its sort, that
satisfied his exigent taste; and now again he was to thrill with the
joy of acquisition. There were rugs in the room where he sat one
draped over a sette