the shoreless West. This was the moment at which he had instructed his
subconscious self to remind him of an engagement to lecture on Cretan
inscriptions at the home of Mrs. Philip Harris on the Lake Shore Drive,
Chicago, Illinois. He looked again at the shoreless West and tried to
grasp it. It may have been his subconscious self that reminded him--it
may have been the telepathic waves that travelled toward him out of the
half-gloom of the library. They were fifty strong, and they travelled
with great intensity--"Had any one seen him--?" "Where was he?" "What
was wrong?" "Late!" "_Very_ late!" "Such a punctual man!" The waves
fluttered and spread and grew. The president of the club looked at the
hostess. The hostess looked at the president. They consulted and drew
apart. The president rose to speak, clearing her throat for a pained
look. Then she waited.... The hostess was approaching again, a fine
resolution in her face. They conferred, looking doubtfully at the
door. The president nodded courageously and seated herself again on the
platform, while Mrs. Philip Harris passed slowly from the room, the eyes
of the assembled company following her with a little look of curiosity
and dawning hope.

VIII

AND GIVE A SIMPLE LECTURE

In the doorway below she paused a moment, a little startled at the
scene. The bowed heads, the bit of folded tissue, the laughing, eager
tones, the look in Miss Stone's face held her. She swept aside the
drapery and entered--the stately lady of the house.

The bowed heads were lifted. The child sprang to her feet. "Mother-dear!
It is my friend! He has come!" The words sang.

Mrs. Philip Harris held out a gracious hand. She had not intended to
offer her hand. She had intended to be distant and kind. But when the
man looked up she somehow forgot. She held out the hand with a quick
smile.

The Greek was on his feet, bending above it. "It is an honour,
madame--that you come."

"I have come to ask a favour," she replied, slowly, her eyes travelling
over the well-brushed clothes, the clean linen, the slender feet of the
man. Favour was not what she had meant to say--privilege was nearer it.
But there was something about him. Her voice grew suave to match the
words.

"My daughter has told me of you--" Her hand rested lightly on the
child's curls--a safe, unrumpled touch. "Her visit to you has enchanted
her. She speaks of it every day, of the Parthenon and what you told
her."

The eyes