the fire.

"Socially," he said, with a quiet humor, "I am not a success."

Her book dropped upon her knees, her two hands crossed upon its pages.
She stared at the glowing logs as if his thoughts were written there.

"I do not want to give way," he went on, "to a habit of morbid
introspection, but socially I am a horrid failure."

There was a little smile on the girl's face, not caused by his grave
humor. It would appear that she was smiling at something beyond
that--something only visible to her own mental vision.

"Perhaps you do not try," she suggested practically.

"Oh, yes, I do. I try in several languages. I have no small-talk."

"You see," she said gravely, "you are a large man."

"Does that make any difference?" he asked simply.

She turned and looked at him as he towered by her side--looked at him
with a queer smile.

"Yes," she answered, "I think so."

For some moments they remained thus without speaking--in a peaceful
silence. Although the room was very large, it was peaceful. What is it,
by the way, that brings peace to the atmosphere of a room, of a whole
house sometimes? It can only be something in the individuality of some
person in it. We talk glibly of the comfort of being settled--the
peacefulness, the restfulness of it. Some people, it would appear, are
always settled--of settled convictions, settled mind, settled purpose.
Paul Howard Alexis was perhaps such a person.

At all events, the girl sitting in the low chair by his side seemed to
be under some such influence, seemed to have escaped the unrest which is
said to live in palaces.

When she spoke it was with a quiet voice, as one having plenty of time
and leisure.

"Where have you been?" she asked practically. Maggie was always
practical.

"To the Lanovitches', where we met the Baron de Chauxville."

"Ah!"

"Why--ah?"

"Because I dislike the Baron de Chauxville," answered Maggie in her
decisive way.

"I am glad of that--because I hate him!" said Paul. "Have you any reason
for your dislike?"

Miss Delafield had a reason, but it was not one that she could mention
to Paul. So she gracefully skirted the question.

"He has the same effect upon me as snails," she explained airily.

Then, as if to salve her conscience, she gave the reason, but disguised,
so that he did not recognize it.

"I have seen more of M. de Chauxville than you have," she said gravely.
"He is one of those men of whom women do see more. When men are pre