s she opened the door,
"but very sleepy."

"You are very kind," she said. "They must go to bed. But you will come
in, and drink a glass of wine? No?"

"Yes," I said, suddenly pushing aside the diffidence that years of
literature had bred. "Yes, I will take a glass of wine with you, Mrs.
Carville. To the coming year."

"Oh, but," she said, laughing over her shoulder as she led the way into
the parlour, "Have you the gift of good fortune that you bring to me for
this next year? I hope you have. Here is the wine. My husband gets it
when he goes to Ancona. The wine of Umbria. You like it?"

"To next year," I said as she filled two glasses from a large wickered
flask. "And what is left of this," I added. She sat on a white chair in
front of a wall covered with books, a brilliant, tragic, yet smiling
figure of a beautiful woman, charming in the kindly coquetry of the
moment. For that is how I interpreted her mood, that she divined my
diffidence with feminine quickness and sought innocently enough to help
me along. And I made up my mind to take the chance, should it appear,
and warn her of what we had feared. She would take it from me, knowing
of my diffidence. As she sat there, she filled one of my ideals; the
robust and beautiful mother. I will have none of your pale, puling
madonnas. I have never been under the influence of women, but I delight
in them tall and strong and with the splendid beauty of health and
maturity. Against her husband's books, which made a background of colour
and gold like old tapestry for her head, she was a wonderful complexity
of vigorous, abounding life and still decorative outline. She turned and
looked at me after setting down her glass and found me watching her. She
smiled in a friendly way.

"You know," she said, "we have bought a home on Staten Island? Well,
when we are fixed, you will come and see us--when my husband is home.
You will, all?"

"I will anyhow," I said. "I like your husband and I like your two boys,
and...."

"And me?" she inquired with a smile that pursed her lips. "You no like
me?" I laughed.

"I did not say that," I observed. "How could it be otherwise? Even
though you will be offended, I must wonder if you know how much you mean
to him."

"To him?" she echoed vaguely, in alarm.

"To your husband," I went on. "You see, he has told me a good deal of
his life. And I think you have made all the difference in it. He is not
a noisy man, you know, but he made it very