beg your pardon--" he faltered.

Hood signalled to him furiously behind her back to maintain silence.

"No apology would be adequate," she remarked with dignity. "We'd better
drop that and consider your errand on its strict merits."

"Admirably said, madam," Hood rejoined readily. "We ask nothing of you
but seats at your table and the favor of a little wholesome and
stimulating conversation, which I refuse to believe you capable of
denying us."

A clock somewhere began to boom seven. She waited for the last stroke to
die away.

"I make it a rule never to deny food to any applicant, no matter how
unworthy. You may remain."

[Illustration: "I make it a rule never to deny food to any applicant,
no matter how unworthy. You may remain."]

Deering had hardly adjusted himself to this when an old gentleman entered
the room, and with only the most casual glance at the two pilgrims walked
to the grand piano, shook back his cuffs, and began playing Mendelssohn's
"Spring Song," as though that particular melody were the one great
passion of his life. When he had concluded he rose and shook down his
cuffs.

"If that isn't music," he demanded, walking up to the amazed Deering, who
still clung to his post by the door, "what is it? Answer me that!"

"You played it perfectly," Deering stammered.

"And you," he demanded, whirling upon Hood, "what have you to say, sir?"

"The great master himself would have envied your touch," Hood replied.

The old gentleman glared. "Rot!" he ejaculated; and then, turning to the
mistress of the house, he asked: "Do these ruffians dine with us?"

"They seem about to do us that honor. My father, Mr. Hood, and--Mr. Tuck.
Shall we go out to dinner?"

The gentleman she had introduced as her father glared again--a separate
glare for each--and, advancing with a ridiculous strut, gave the lady his
arm.

In the hall Hood intercepted Deering in the act of effecting egress by
way of the front door. His fingers dug deeply into his nervous
companion's arm as he dragged him along, talking in his characteristic
vein:

"My dear Tuck, it's a pleasure to find ourselves at last in a home whose
appointments speak for breeding and taste. The portrait on our right
bears all the marks of a genuine Copley. Madam, may I inquire whether I
correctly attribute that portrait to our great American master?"

"You are quite right," she answered over her shoulder. "The subject of
the portrait is my great-great-grandf