tandard of old days, the divinity of Scalchi herself. She would
have created a sensation in Delmonico's, the real Delmonico's. Gary and
the Colonel--

"We think they're elegant," Mrs. Polder's voice broke in on his revery.
He looked up and saw a great fish on a huge platter before his host, a
fish in surprising semblance to life, had it not been for the rosettes
of lemon, the green bed, which surrounded it. "Gracious, no," she
answered Mariana's query; "we don't do it home. Mr. Polder has them sent
from a Rathskeller down town. He'll make a meal off one." The latter was
plainly chagrined at this light thrown on his petty appetites. He
assumed an air of complete detachment in the portioning of the dish;
but, at the same time, managed to supply himself liberally. The
conversation was sporadic. Howat Penny found the dinner lavish, and
divided his attention between it and Kate Polder. James and Mariana
addressed general remarks to the table at succeeding intervals. Mr.
Polder gloomed, and Isabella went through the gestures, the accents, of
the occasion with utter correctness. Howat studied Mariana, but he was
unable to discover her thoughts; she was smiling and cordial; and
apologized for losing her slipper. "I always do," she explained. James
Polder hastily rose, and came around to assist her. The dinner was at an
end, and she stood with a slim, silken foot outheld for him to replace
the fragile object of search.

They reassembled above, and Mrs. Polder suggested music. "My son says
you are very fond of good music," she addressed Howat Penny. "I can tell
you it is a lovely taste. We have the prettiest records that come.
Isabella, put on _Hark, Hark, the Lark_." She obediently rose, and,
revolving the handle of the talking machine, fixed the grooved, rubber
disk and needle. Howat listened with a stony countenance to the ensuing
strains. Such instruments were his particular detestation. Mrs. Polder
waved her hand dreamily. "Now," she said, "the _Sextette_, and _The End
of a Perfect Day_. No, Mr. Penny would like to hear _Salome_, I'm sure,
with all those cymbals and creepy Eastern tunes." An orgy of sound
followed, applauded--perversely, he was certain--by Mariana. James, he
saw, was as uneasy as himself; but for a totally different reason. He
gazed at Mariana with a fierce devotion patent to the most casual eye;
his expression was tormented with concern and longing.

"When do you return to Harrisburg?" Byron Polder inquir