ched
laugh with no mirth in it. "Let me present my wife," he said, sobering
suddenly. "Mrs. Carr, Miss----"

Here he coughed, and the guest, rising, filled the pause. "I am Elaine St.
Clair," she explained, offering a white, tremulous hand which Dorothy did
not seem to see. "It is very good of your husband to ask me to stay with
you."

"Very," replied Dorothy, in a tone altogether new to her husband. "He is
always doing lovely things for people. And now, Harlan, if you will show
Miss St. Clair to her room, I will speak with Mrs. Smithers about
luncheon, which should be nearly ready by this time."

"Thunder," said Harlan to himself, as Dorothy withdrew. "What in the devil
do I know about 'her room'? Have you ever been here before?" he inquired
of the guest.

"Never in my life," answered Miss St. Clair, wiping her eyes.

"Well," replied Harlan, confusedly, "just go on upstairs, then, and help
yourself. There are plenty of rooms, and cribs to burn in every blamed one
of 'em," he added, savagely, remembering the look in Dorothy's eyes.

"Thank you," said Miss St. Clair, diffidently; "it is very kind of you to
let me choose. Can some one bring my trunk up this afternoon?"

"I'll attend to it," replied her host, brusquely.

She trailed noiselessly upstairs, carrying her heavy suit case, and
Harlan, not altogether happy at the prospect, went in search of Dorothy.
At the kitchen door he paused, hearing voices within.

"They've usually et by themselves," Mrs. Smithers was saying. "Is this a
new one, or a friend of yours?"

The sentence was utterly without meaning, either to Harlan or Dorothy, but
the answer was given, as quick as a flash. "A friend, Mrs. Smithers--a
very dear old friend of Mr. Carr's."

"'Mr. Carr's,'" repeated Harlan, miserably, tiptoeing away to the library,
where he sat down and wiped his forehead. "'A very dear old friend.'"
Disconnectedly, and with pronounced emphasis, Harlan mentioned the place
which is said to be paved with good intentions.

The clock struck twelve, and it was just eleven when he had begun on _The
Quest of the Lady Elaine_. "'One crowded hour of glorious life is
worth'--what idiot said it was worth anything?" groaned Harlan, inwardly.
"Anyway, I've had the crowded hour. 'Better fifty years of Europe than a
cycle of Cathay'"--the line sang itself into his consciousness. "Europe be
everlastingly condemned," he muttered. "Oh, how my head aches!"

He leaned back in his chair, w