the case, as
sometimes happens to agriculturists, notably in politics.

Following his baptism of dog and fire, Mr. Warmdollar crawled back to
town and worked no more. Mrs. Warmdollar was named scrubwoman, while her
disheartened spouse devoted himself to strong drink, as though to color
one's nose and fuddle one's wits were the great purposes of existence.
Being eager of gain, Mrs. Warmdollar had sub-rented her parlor floor to
the San Reve; and since Mrs. Warmdollar was a lady in whom curiosity had
had its day and died, she asked no questions the answers to which might
prove embarrassing.

The San Reve, like Mrs. Warmdollar, worked in a department, being a
draughtswoman in the Treasury Building, and attached to the staff of the
supervising architect. The place had been granted the San Reve at the
request of Senator Hanway, who was urged thereunto by Mr. Harley, to
whom Storri explained the San Reve's skill in plates and plans and the
propriety of work.

The San Reve's apartments were comfortable with chairs, lounges, and
ottomans; a piano occupied one corner, while two or three good pictures
hung upon the walls. In the bow-window was a window-seat piled high with
cushions, from which by daylight one might have surveyed the passing
show--dull enough in Grant Place.

"Have you no kiss for your Storri, my San Reve?" cried Storri
plaintively, but still sticking to the lightly confident.

The San Reve accepted Storri's gallant attention as though thinking on
other things than kisses. Then she threw aside her hat and wraps, and
glanced at herself in the glass.

She was a striking figure, the San Reve, with brick-colored hair and
eyes more green than gray. Her skin showed white as ivory; her nose and
mouth and chin, heavy for a woman, told of a dangerous energy when
aroused. The eyebrows, too, had a lowering falcon trick that touched the
face with fierceness. The forehead gave proof of brains, and yet the San
Reve was one more apt to act than think, particularly if she felt
herself aggrieved. If you must pry into a matter so delicate, the San
Reve was twenty-eight; standing straight as a spear, with small hands
and feet, she displayed that ripeness of outline which sculptors give
their Phrynes.

"Storri," said the San Reve, with a chill bluntness that promised the
disagreeable while it lost no time, "why do you visit that house--the
Harley house?"

Storri was in an easy-chair, puffing a cigar as though at home. The S