h it. It was very brief.

"Well?" asked Mabel.

"It's nothing. Nothing at all."

"I should like to see it, if you don't mind."

She took the letter and read aloud: "Lukie, dear. Just back from two
years' travel. You two might blow in to lunch one day. Any old day.
Chops and tomato sauce. Yours, Jona."

"Most extraordinary," said Mabel. "Why does she call you Lukie?"

"Well, damn it all," said Luke, "she couldn't call me lucky. Oh, what
does it matter? We were boy and girl together. Innocent friends of
long standing."

"And what does this mean? Chops and tomato sauce? Chops! Gracious
Heavens! And tomato sauce."

"It's just a joke. Silly, no doubt."

"It might be an allusion to your complexion at the present moment. It
might be a mere substitute for some endearing word or promise,
agreeably to a preconcerted system of correspondence."

He had an uneasy feeling that he had heard or read all this before
somewhere.

"Merely a joke," he pleaded. "And what does it matter?"

"She's a cat, anyhow. She'd better keep off the grass, and I'll tell
her so. What did she say when she saw you this morning?"

"Hardly anything. Her husband was with her. I say, how on earth did
you know?"

"Her husband was not with her when I met her. But do you know what
this sudden return of yours means? This unusual desire to apologize
for your manners, and to take me out for the day? Guilty conscience.
I'm going into the garden to cut flowers for the luncheon table."

"Let me come with you and hold the scissors?"

"If you hold the scissors, how the dickens am I going to cut the
flowers? You're really too trying."

No, it was not going well. More self-control would be needed. A happy
idea struck him.

"Didn't you say that Mrs. Smith had a stable sole--I mean, a sable
stole, in church or somewhere?"

"And you don't try that on either."

"I don't suppose I should look well in it," he said brightly.

He followed her into the garden. The flowers were cut, and
subsequently arranged, in complete silence. He had the feeling that
anything he said might not be taken down, but would certainly be used
in evidence against him.

And then, in the hall, was heard the voice of Mr. Doom Dagshaw, the
proprietor of the Mammoth Circus at the Garden Settlement.

"Lunch ready? So it ought to be. Don't announce me. Waste of time. I
know my way about in this house."

He entered. He was a young man of sulky, somewhat dictatorial
expression. His