that. A reporter from
one of the less reputable dailies had asked for an interview, and had
written an article which barely escaped being libelous. There were not
wanting those in the profession who openly denounced him as a "fakir."

The longer he thought about it, the more unwilling he was to act upon
his own judgment alone, and so he turned to the one unfailing counsellor
of his life, his sister Hilda. With him, to will was to do, so within an
hour he was in his sister's drawing-room, and not five minutes later
Silvia Holland entered and was warmly greeted by Mrs. Ramsey. The day
was dismal and the rain was descending in a steady downpour that gave no
promise of ever ceasing; it was late afternoon, and Mrs. Ramsey said
cordially, "Let us have tea in my sitting-room; nobody else will come
such a day as this, and it will be so much more cosy. I distrust from
his air of supernatural gravity that my brother has something on his
mind----"

"Then I will be _de trop_" said Miss Holland. "I will amuse myself in
the library until you are at liberty. I was awfully glad to get your
'phone message to come over, for it's a wretched day, and I was
wondering where I should go for tea as I came up town from my office.
Have your conference and never mind about me."

"Indeed," said Jack eagerly, "if you would be so kind as to give me your
opinion also on the matter I have called to consult my sister about, you
would confer a great favor," and even as he spoke he knew it was for her
quick comprehension he had been unconsciously wishing all the time.

She laughed and assented graciously, and they followed Mrs. Ramsey to
her own charming little room, as dainty and distinctive as its owner.
Upon the tea-tray there were cigarettes, and Dr. Earl rather wondered
whether Silvia would accept, but she shook her head. "No," she said
lightly, "I emulate men's virtues, not their vices; maybe my nerves may
need alternate sedatives and stimulants some day, but as yet I hardly
know that I have any."

Hilda lit one rather languidly. "My doctor says it isn't so much nerves
as lack of nerve with me; I don't know what you call it, but I confess I
find the smoke-wreaths pleasant; you won't join me either, Jack? Well,
let us have the story in all its native simplicity and be sure you
nothing extenuate nor set down aught in malice."

"I am told," he said, "that no well-bred New Yorker makes literary
allusions, and that to quote Shakespeare is to releg