-cake, and other unpurchasable manna."

"Stop! or I'll call the food censor," I pleaded, picking up my hat.
"Send me your copy of 'Lady Geranium,' and I'll tell you whether it's a
classic or not."

"'Lady Larkspur,'" he corrected with a shudder. "You shall have it by
trusted messenger to-morrow."

I wired Antoine that I would reach Barton-on-the-Sound the following
day. This was September, 1917. The former servants of the Tyringham were
established on the place by my uncle the year before he dropped business
cares and departed for the Japan of his dreams, and as I had been often
at the hotel where he spent so many of the years of his life, I knew
most of the old retainers. They were deeply appreciative of his
kindness, and when I had gone to the farm for an uninterrupted month in
finishing some piece of writing they had shown me the greatest
consideration.

As the train rolled along the familiar shore toward Barton I shook off
the depression occasioned by my enforced retirement from the great
struggle overseas. I had done under the French flag all that it was
possible for me to do; and there was some consolation in the fact that
by reason of my two years on the battle-line I was just so much ahead of
the friends I met in New York who were answering the call to the colors
and had their experience of war all before them. The tranquil life that
had been recommended by the doctors was not only possible at Barton, but
it was the only life that could be lived there. Plenty of exercise in
the open and regular habits would, I had been assured, set me up again,
and my leisure I meant to employ in beginning a novel that had been
teasing me ever since I sailed for home.

Of my uncle Bash I had only the happiest and most grateful memories.
Quite naturally it had occurred to me at times, and my friends had
encouraged the idea, that my uncle would die some day and leave me his
money. There was no particular reason why he should do so, as he had
never manifested any unusual affection for me and I had certainly never
done anything for him.

Antoine was at the Barton station with the touring-car Uncle Bash had
bought to establish communication with the village. Flynn, the big
Irishman who had been the doorman at the Tyringham for years and retired
because of rheumatism acquired from long exposure to the elements at the
hostelry's portals, was at the wheel.

Antoine greeted me with that air of lofty condescension tempered with a