ent magazines, a work basket filled with knitting, and a lamp
crowned by a broad shade of silk with threads hanging from it, which,
when twirled, stood out and looked like a miniature wheat field with the
wind running through it. The lamp on the table by which Tom was sitting
was an old-fashioned silver affair but recently converted to
electricity. Its shade was high and dignified, and it had been
discovered that when lifted from its place it could be worn as a turban.

The fireplace carried on its mantel a running commentary upon the
changing details of family interest. At present, flanking the little
French clock upon its centre was a variety of old glass, Eighteenth
Century rum and whiskey flasks recently collected by Mrs. Norris. There
were, additionally, a porcelain image of two farmers, _dos a dos_, one
with rosy cheeks and flashing eye labelled "water," and the other,
haggard and ill-favoured, labelled "gin"; also a brace of saturnine
china cats. Above the mantel stretched an expanse of oak panelling which
supported the portrait of Mrs. Norris's great-great-grandfather in a
heavy gilt frame. The old gentleman, who looked amiably out from his
starched neckcloth, had been a delegate to the Continental Congress and
a jurist of distinction. Beside him on a table were some papers,
obviously of the first importance, for they were plastered with seals, a
copy of Coke on Lyttleton, and an inkpot with a quill sticking out of
it. His arm was lying lightly on the table, his cherubic face smiling
back at its observer wherever he stood; and Tom imagined that his next
move would be, after the manner of his great-great-granddaughter, to
rise with a sweep and tip over the inkpot.

The colour in the room was chiefly contributed by the deep red curtains
which hung beside the windows and which brought out and emphasized each
object of kindred colour in the room. In this way were made conspicuous
the turban-like shade, a lacquered calendar rest upon the desk, a
footstool, and even the British Colonies on a globe hiding unobtrusively
in a corner. The heavy Persian rugs echoed the note so generously that
the books with reddish bindings stood out from their fellows and played
their part in giving to the whole a richness that made the room
remarkable.

Tom gazed at the group before him. Henry Whitman, Assistant Professor of
Economics at thirty, a member of Grave, was telling a story of an
Italian in Whitmanville who, when he curled, u