o'clock in the morning, he took the notion it was dinner time
and climbed the side gate to the Hotel Marseillaise and pounded at the
door. He faded out about then, he says. When he woke up, he was laid
out on a couch, with a towel on his head, and Madame was bringing him
black coffee. He tried to thank her after he felt better; and what do
you think she said? 'Meester Purdy, nevaire, nevaire come to eat in
thees place again.' She stayed with it too!"

"Good for her!" said Mrs. Tiffany, reaching for her crewel work.

"Oh, yes," responded Mr. Chester in the uncertain tone of one who
gives assent for politeness without knowing exactly why.

"If I ever depart from the straight and narrow paths and get drunk,
may I have Madame Loisel to hold my head," cried Kate.

The talk ran, then, into conventional channels--the news, the latest
novel, and the season's picking at the ranch. Judge Tiffany dropped
out gradually, and resumed his book; and more and more did Bertram
direct his talk, salted and seasoned with his magnetism, toward
Eleanor. Kate Waddington, left out of the conversation through three
or four exchanges, crossed the room and draped herself on a hassock at
the feet of Judge Tiffany.

"Judge darling," she said in an aside which penetrated to the furthest
corner of the room, "I'm going back to my unsympathetic home before
tea. Don't you think we're well enough chaperoned to go on with our
flirtation just where we left off?"

"Where was I when we were interrupted?" asked Judge Tiffany, leaning
forward.

"Twenty-fourth page, fifth chapter," said Kate. "I was just getting
you jealous and you were trying not to show it. Mr. Chester--oh excuse
me--well, I've broken in now, so I might as well get the reward of my
impoliteness--may I use you to make Judge Tiffany jealous?"

"Sure you can!" answered Bertram.

"Oh, he won't do at all!" Kate was addressing Judge Tiffany again.
"He's entirely too eager. Who would be a good rival anyway, Judge
adored? Let's create one, like the picture of your future husband in a
nickel vaudeville!"

"Eleanor," spoke Mrs. Tiffany, "suppose you show Mr. Chester your end
of the house and our garden--or would you like it, Mr. Chester? We're
rather proud of the garden."

"I'd like it," answered Bertram; and he rose instantly. Mrs. Tiffany
made no move to accompany them; she sat bent over her yarns, her ears
open. And she noticed, at the moment when Bertram made that abrupt
movement from