gaged by Isabel as butler, chambermaid, valet, and footman, and
entered the large living-room, Gwynne generously gave voice to his
approval. There were books to the ceiling, easy-chairs, the photographs
of friends that had decorated his rooms in London and Capheaton. His
eyes contracted as he saw a pile of London newspapers on the table, and
he turned away hastily and remarked that he was glad the fittings were
red, as it would be more companionable in winter; the rest of the year
he should live out-of-doors. The veranda, which surrounded the house,
was quite wide enough to live on, and below it was a border of garden
full of old-fashioned flowers. The bedrooms, gayly furbished with chintz
and matting, were up-stairs.

"I didn't think it worth while to furnish a dining-room," said Isabel as
they returned to the lower floor. "It has always been the custom to eat
at the end of the living-room--when they didn't eat in the kitchen. And
what more dreary than to take your meals in a big country dining-room by
yourself! All the rooms here are large."

She took him into the kitchen and introduced him to his cook, a stout
Mexican woman, who received him with excessive dignity, and wore nothing
but a single calico garment open to the chest. Then they mounted their
horses again and Isabel escorted him down to the great hay-barns, the
dairy, and cattle-sheds, introducing him to his hired men, who looked
him over frankly, but, somewhat to his surprise, addressed him as "sir."
He commented upon the unexpected deference as they rode back to the
house.

"Oh, these country folk are naturally polite," said Isabel, dryly. "They
are not yet entirely corrupted by the yellow press, although independent
enough, as you will discover. Tact will manage any one. I have been
managing people all my life, and have prepared this force to like you.
Now I must be off. I am to lunch with Anabel."

"You are not going to leave me!" cried Gwynne, in dismay.

"The tragic moment must come sooner or later," she said, gayly. "And you
have forgotten your mail. It is somewhere under all those newspapers.
I'll ride out in a day or two and see how you are getting on."

She gave him a cavalier little nod, touched her horse with the whip, and
a moment later was lost in a cloud of dust. Gwynne, angry and
disappointed, looked after her a moment, then shrugged his shoulders and
went in to his mail.

VI

Mrs. Tom Colton lived on one of the higher slopes