"It seems real good to have him here
again, and he's dreadful tickled with his new rooms. I guess he's
glad he wasn't shoved off onto Mrs. Jim Jones or Mrs. Sam Elliot. I
don't believe he has an idea of getting married to any girl alive. He
ain't a mite silly over the girls, if they are all setting their caps
at him. I'm sort of sorry for Lucy Ayres. She's a pretty girl, and
real ladylike, and I believe she'd give all her old shoes to get him."

"Look out, he'll hear you," charged Henry. Their room was directly
under the one occupied by Horace.

Presently the odor of a cigar floated into their open window.

"I should know he'd got home. Smoking is an awful habit," Sylvia
said, with a happy chuckle.

"He'd do better if he smoked a pipe," said Henry. Henry smoked a pipe.

"If a man is going to smoke at all, I think he had better smoke
something besides a smelly old pipe," said Sylvia. "It seems to me,
with all our means, you might smoke cigars now, Henry. I saw real
nice ones advertised two for five cents the other day, and you
needn't smoke more than two a day."

Henry sniffed slightly.

"I suppose you think women don't know anything about cigars," said
Sylvia; "but I can smell, anyhow, and I know Mr. Allen is smoking a
real good cigar."

"Yes, he is," assented Henry.

"And I don't believe he pays more than a cent apiece. His cigars have
gilt papers around them, and I know as well as I want to they're
cheap; I know a cent apiece is a much as he pays. He smokes so many
he can't pay more than that."

Henry sniffed again, but Sylvia did not hear. She had one deaf ear,
and she was lying on her sound one. Then they fell asleep, and it was
some time before both woke suddenly. A sound had wakened Henry, an
odor Sylvia. Henry had heard a door open, forcing him into
wakefulness; Sylvia had smelled the cigar again. She nudged her
husband. Just then the tall clock in the sitting-room struck ten
deliberately.

"It's late, and he's awake, smoking, now," whispered Sylvia.

Henry said nothing. He only grunted.

"Don't you think it's queer?"

"Oh no. I guess he's only reading," replied Henry. He had a strong
masculine loyalty towards Horace, as another man. He waited until he
heard Sylvia's heavy, regular breathing again. Then he slipped out of
bed and stole to the window. It was a strange night, very foggy, but
the fog was shot through with shafts of full moonlight. The air was
heavy and damp and sweet. Henry listene