late appearance of young Bayliss, when he dropped in for the
"sing" in the drawing-room, was responsible for the resurrection of my
dinner coat. He did look so disgustingly young and handsome and at ease.
I was conscious of each one of my thirty-eight years whenever I looked
at him.

I was rejuvenating in other ways. It had been my custom at Bayport to
retire to my study and my books each evening. Here, where callers
were so frequent, I found it difficult to do this and, although the
temptation was to sit quietly in a corner and let the others do the
talking, I was not allowed to yield. The younger callers, particularly
the masculine portion, would not have objected to my silence, I am
sure, but "my niece" seemed to take mischievous pleasure in drawing the
quahaug out of his shell. She had a disconcerting habit of asking me
unexpected questions at times when my attention was wandering, and, if
I happened to state a definite opinion, taking the opposite side with
promptness. After a time I decided not to express opinions, but to agree
with whatever was said as the simplest way of avoiding controversy and
being left to myself.

This procedure should, it seemed to me, have satisfied her, but
apparently it did not. On one occasion, Judson and Herbert Bayliss being
present, the conversation turned to the subject of American athletic
sports. The curate and Bayliss took the ground, the prevailing thought
in England apparently, that all American games were not games, but
fights in which the true sporting spirit was sacrificed to the desire
to win at any cost. I had said nothing, keeping silent for two reasons.
First, that I had given my views on the subject before, and, second,
because argument from me was, in that company, fruitless effort. The
simplest way to end discussion of a disagreeable topic was to pay no
attention to it.

But I was not allowed to escape so easily. Bayliss asked me a question.

"Isn't it true, Mr. Knowles," he asked, "that the American football
player wears a sort of armor to prevent his being killed?"

My thoughts had been drifting anywhere and everywhere. Just then they
were centered about "my niece's" hands. She had very pretty hands and
a most graceful way of using them. At the moment they were idly turning
some sheets of music, but the way the slim fingers moved in and out
between the pages was pretty and fascinating. Her foot, glimpsed beneath
her skirt, was slender and graceful, too. She had