attitude of apology.

"I beg pardon," he said. "What I meant was it reminded me of old Turner,
you know, messing about with coloured sugar-plums."

"A colour-scheme?" said Mac, light dawning in his puzzled face.

"That's it, that's the word: colour-scheme," said Mr. Carville. "I'd
forgotten the word." And he handed the drawing back. "You wonder at a
seafaring man coming out here to live?"

"It's a very healthy district," I suggested.

"Mrs. Carville don't like New York, that's all," he said, simply.
"Personally, I shouldn't have bothered. But she's quite right."

"I should think it was better for the children too," said Bill.

He nodded vigorously, packing the tobacco into his pipe.

"Fresh air," said Mac, who slept out on the porch half the year.

"Oh there's plenty of fresh air in Atlantic Avenue," he said. "I had
something else in mind." He looked thoughtful, and then his face lighted
up with an extremely vivid indignation. It died away again in a moment,
but it transfigured him. "Automobiles," he added.

We nodded, understanding him perfectly. We had seen them, in New York as
in Brooklyn, careering at maniacal speed among the children at play.
Bill, who loved children almost as much as flowers, had come in one day
in Lexington Avenue, white and sick, and told us brokenly of something
she had seen. So we nodded and he, seeing that we understood, said no
more.

"Have you lived in America long?" I inquired.

"Both the kids were born here," he replied. "Yes, that's nearly eight
years since we came. You see--but it's a long story. I don't know
whether you'd be interested----"

Bill rose.

"Let us go outside," she said. "It's beautifully warm."

We went out.

"You must take the Fourth Chair," said Bill, looking at us.

We explained to him the legend of the Fourth Chair.

"You see," I added, "we were expecting you. There is fate in this."

For a long time he sat quietly looking across the valley, as though
pondering something.

"I think I might as well begin at the beginning," he said at last, "and
work up to the kids' names gradually. Though as a matter of fact I could
tell you in two words the reasons for giving them such un-English names,
it wouldn't explain how I feel. And that I take it is what you are
after?"

"Begin at the beginning," I said.

"So I will. I told you I was born at sea. My father was a merchant
skipper of Boston. I don't remember him very well, for he died when I
was seven,