ly planned. But what would be the
good of telling you the color of these ladies' hair and eyes had I
noticed it? It will help you much more effectively to pick them out in a
crowd to be told they are very American."

"Voices, too, I suppose."

"Of course. You don't strictly mean high and nasal, do you? All I can
say with any positiveness is that one of them had what I will call a
warm voice--a voice, to make my meaning quite clear, like the crimson
heart on a valentine."

"I am enlightened. Was it the mignonette one?"

"No; the hardy-garden rose."

"And what did she say to you in her warm crimson voice?"

"I have told you. She called for help."

"You said, I hope, that your wife and daughters would be very happy to
call on them and be of use if they could."

"I did."

The time-tried, well-mated friends were looking over at each other
across the table, not expressing any more than at all times the quiet,
daily desire of each to further the interests and comforts of the other.

"Where are they staying?" the lady continued to question.

"Hotel de la Paix."

"And they haven't any letters, introductions, addresses, anything?"

"Apparently not."

"Where are they from?"

"Let me see. Did they mention it? My dear, if they did, I don't recall
it."

"New York?"

"No. If I am to guess, I shouldn't guess that."

"Out West?"

"H-m, they might be. No, I guess they're Yankees."

"Boston?"

"If so, not aggressively. Where do most people come from? There's
nothing very distinctive about most."

"Perhaps it will be on their cards."

Then the Fosses talked of other things. But when Mrs. Foss, after
dinner, went upstairs for her scarf,--it was too cool now to sit out of
doors in the evening without a wrap,--she remembered the cards, and took
them out of her husband's pocket.

"Miss Estelle Madison," she read. "Mrs. Aurora Hawthorne." There was
nothing else. She continued a little longer to look at the bits of
pasteboard in her hand. "Well-sounding names, both of them--like names
in a play. Mrs. Aurora. She's a widow, then." Mrs. Foss considered. "Or
else divorced."

* * * * *

Jerome Foss sat out in the garden on fine evenings with his cigar, and
watched the serene oncoming of the night, because he loved to do this.
His wife stayed with him to be company, when, without an old-fashioned
ideal of married life, her natural bent would have urged her indoors,
where