ce between them. As the talk ran
exhaustively through the lore of witches and goblins I had hoped that
one or the other would drop some clew as to the previous history of my
amazing aunt. It was as plain as day that she and Mrs. Farnsworth
indulged in whims for the joy of it, and her zest in the discussion of
witches, carried on while Antoine served the table, lips tightly
compressed, and with an exaggeration of his stately tread, was the more
startling from the fact that my aunt's companion was a woman of years, a
handsome woman with a high-bred air who did not look at all like a
person who would discuss witches as though they had been made the topic
of the day by the afternoon newspapers. And when the shape of a witch's
chin became the immediate point of discussion I knew it was in Antoine's
mind that such conversation was unbecoming, an offense to the memory of
Raymond Bashford. Mrs. Farnsworth's brown eyes sparkled, and the color
deepened in my aunt's cheeks as we discoursed upon witches and the chins
thereof. I had a friend in college who used to indulge in the same sort
of piffling, but that my uncle's widow and her elderly companion should
delight in such absurdities bewildered me. I had been addressing my aunt
as Mrs. Bashford--it seemed ridiculous to call her Aunt Alice--and in
the heat of our argument as to whether witches are necessarily naughty
and malign beings I had just uttered the "Mrs." when she bent toward me
and said gravely and with no hint of archness: "Can't we make it Alice
and Bob? I think that would be a lot friendlier."

I experienced a curious flutter of the heart the first time I tried it,
but after that it came very easily. I found it impossible to think of
her in terms of auntship, and it was a relief to have the relationship
waived. She was simply the jolliest, prettiest girl that had ever
crossed my horizon, and to be talking to her across the table gave me
thrills compared with which sliding out of clouds in an airplane is only
a rocking-chair pastime for old men.

The veteran chef of the Tyringham had produced an excellent dinner,
though the witch talk made Antoine a trifle nervous in serving it.

We had coffee on the veranda (Alice thought it would be nicer there),
and as Antoine gave me my cup he edged close to my chair to whisper:

"That party, sir. If he should come----"

"Tell the troops not to attack any visitors," I said, loud enough for
the others to hear. "Mr. Torrence will