ent, he had nothing to complain of. He was lionized, quoted,
courted, flattered, reviewed, viewed through rose-colored
spectacles; and disillusioned, discontented, cynical, selfish, and,
of course, most horribly bored. He was gun-shy of women; he
suspected them of wanting to marry him. He was wary of men; he
suspected them of wanting to exploit him. He loathed children, who
were generally obstreperous and unnecessary editions of parents he
didn't admire. He didn't even trust the beautiful works of men's
hands. They, even they, were too often faked! If you had dug up the
indubitable mummy of the first Pharaoh from under the oldest of the
pyramids, The Author would have turned him over on his back and
hunted for the trade-mark of The Modern Mummy-makers: London, Paris,
and New York; Catalogue on Request.

He stalked through Hynds House with slitted eyes and bristling
mustache--business of silent sleuth on the trail of the
furniture-fakir! He'd pause at each door and with an eagle glance
take a comprehensive survey; then, defensively, offensively, he
examined things in detail. From our rambling attics to our vast and
cavernous cellars did he go; and not a word crossed his lips until
he had completed this conandoyley examination. Then:

"Telegraph form if you have one, please," he requested briefly. "I
wish to wire for my car. Put Johnson in the room next mine.
Johnson's my secretary." He looked at Alicia, reflectively. "Amiable
ass, Johnson," he volunteered. Then he went over to the tiled
fireplace--we were in the library--and bent worshipfully before it.

"The finest bit of tile-work on this continent," he said, in a
hushed voice. "Absolutely perfect. And it belongs to a woman named
Smith!"

"We know just how you feel about it," Alicia told him
sympathetically, while The Author turned red to his ears. "I have
often felt like that myself, when something I particularly wanted
was bought by somebody I was sure couldn't properly appreciate it. I
dare say I was mistaken," admitted Alicia, "just as mistaken as you
are now in thinking that Sophy and I aren't worthy of those tiles.
We are--all the more so because we never before had anything like
them."

The spoiled darling of success looked at us intently; and a most
curious change came over his clever, bad-tempered face. His eyes are
as bright as ice, and have somewhat the same cold light in them. Now
a thaw set in and melted them, and a mottled red spread over his
sall