t would be fun."

"Of course it would. And perfectly harmless. Farwell's servants are
discreet. He has trained them. Nobody need know."

But it was not any doubts of propriety that made her hesitate. For
Jacqueline, conventions did not exist. Moreover, the breaking of bread
seemed too natural and simple a thing to take with any seriousness. It
was her democratic custom to present herself for a meal at any table
near which the meal hour happened to find her. Farmers, tenants, even
negroes in the field, had on occasion proudly shared their bacon and
corn-pone with the Madam's youngest daughter.

"It's Mother," she explained, "She has just come home, and I haven't
seen her for three days. If I am not there to pet her and make a fuss
over her, she will miss me, and worry.--No," she corrected herself,
"Mother never worries, but she'll wonder. I must go."

"There's to be a rum cake," murmured Channing, craftily. "And--do you
like champagne?"

Jacqueline's eyes sparkled. "I've never tasted it, or rum cake either. I
_would_ like to--" her eyes wandered wistfully toward the dining-room.
"Suppose I telephone and ask Mother whether she'd mind?"

"If you do that, she's sure to mind. Mothers always do. Besides, think
of the firm sister. Do you suppose she'll consent to your dining in a
strange actor's house? Never!"

Jacqueline tossed her head. "It's none of Jemmy's business. She's only
two years older than I am.--Besides, I needn't tell her where I've been,
need I?"

Channing had accomplished his purpose.

The girl's hunger for the things that were to him matters of everyday,
touched him. She stood a moment in the door of the dining-room, gazing
in delight at the long carven oak table, with Florentine candelabra at
each end and a strip of filet across the center, at either side of which
their plates were laid, separated by a vase of white alabaster, holding
a few hothouse roses, crimson as blood. Untrained as her eyes were, they
appreciated the aesthetic at sight.

"It is all so different," she said with a little sigh. "The very food is
different, and beautiful."

"Farwell does himself very well at what he calls his little backwoods
farmhouse. But why the sigh?"

"Because--" she looked away shyly, then looked at him again. "I was
thinking that I don't belong in this sort of place, and--and you do."

"Nonsense!" He leaned across the table, and laid his hand on hers. "You
belong wherever things are most beautiful, my