ndreamed of in the dullness of her own monotonous days.

But Anne Warfield knew. Now and then from the threshold she had caught
the drift of their discourse, and she had yearned to draw closer, to sail
with them on unknown seas of romance and of reminiscence, to leave behind
her for the moment the atmosphere of schoolhouse, of small gossip, of
trivial circumstance.

It was with this feeling strong upon her that to-night, when the supper
bell rang, she came into the kitchen and asked Mrs. Bower if she might
help Beulah. She had no feeling that such labor was beneath her. If a
princess cared to serve, she was none the less a princess!

Secure, therefore, in her sense of unassailable dignity, she entered the
dining-room. She might have been a goddess chained to menial tasks--a
small and vivid goddess, with dusky hair. Richard Brooks, observing her,
had once more a swift and certain sense of her fineness and of her
unlikeness to those about her.

The young man with the black ribbon on his eye-glass also observed her.
Later he said to Mrs. Bower, "Can you give me a room here for a month?"

"I might. Usually people don't care to stay so long at this time of
year."

"I am writing a book. I want to stay."

Beside Richard Brooks at the table sat Evelyn Chesley. With the
Dutton-Ames, and Philip Meade, she had come down with Richard and his
mother to speed them upon their mad adventure.

Evelyn had taken off her hat. Her wonderful hair was swept up in a new
fashion from her forehead, a dull gold comb against its native gold. She
wore a silken blouse of white, slightly open at the neck. On her fingers
diamonds sparkled. It seemed to Anne, serving, as if the air of the long
low room were charged with some thrilling quality. Here were youth and
beauty, wit and light laughter, the perfume of the roses which Evelyn
wore tucked in her belt. There was the color, too, of the roses, and of
the cloak in which Winifred Ames had wrapped her shivering fairness. The
cloak was blue, a marvelous pure shade like the Madonna blue of some old
picture.

Even Richard's mother seemed illumined by the radiance which enveloped
the rest. She was a slender little thing and wore plain and simple
widow's black. Yet her delicate cheeks were flushed, her eyes were
shining, and her son had made her, too, wear a red rose.

The supper was suited to the tastes of the old epicures for whom it had
been planned. There were oysters and ducks with the juices