me to have a tragic significance in later days.
Perry loved a warm hearth in winter, a cool porch in summer. He had the
Southerner's epicurean appreciation of the fine art of feasting. The
groaning board had been his inheritance from a rollicking, rackety set
of English ancestors, to whom dining was a rather splendid ceremony. On
his mother's table had been fish and game from Chesapeake, fruits and
vegetables in season and out--roast lamb when prices soared high in the
spring, strawberries as soon as they came up from Florida. There had
always been money for these in the Cunningham exchequer, when there had
been money for nothing else.

Rosalie, on the other hand, ate an orange in the morning, a square of
toast at noon, a chop and perhaps a salad for dinner. One felt that she
might have fared equally well on dew and nectar. She had absolutely no
interest in what was set before her, and after she married Perry this
attitude of mind remained unchanged.

She was a wretched cook, and made no effort to acquire expertness. She
and Perry lived in a small but well-built bungalow some miles out from
town, and they could not afford a maid. When I dined with them I made up
afterward for the deficiencies of their menu by a square meal at the
club. There was no chance for Perry to make up, and I wondered as the
years went on how he stood it.

He seemed to stand it rather well, except that in time he came to have
that same sharpened look of delicacy which added a spiritual note to
Rosalie's rich bloom. He always lighted up when he spoke of his wife,
and he was always urging me to come and see them. I must admit that
except for the meals I liked to go. Rosalie's success at painting had
been negligible, but her love of beauty was expressed in the atmosphere
she gave to her little home; she had achieved rather triumphant results
in backgrounds and in furnishing.

I remember one spring twilight. I was out for the week-end, and we dined
late. The little house was on a hill, and with the French windows wide
open we seemed to hang above an abyss of purple sky, cut by a thin
crescent. White candles lighted the table, and there were white lilacs.
There was a silver band about Rosalie's red hair.

There was not much to eat, and Perry apologized, "Rose hates to fuss
with food in hot weather."

Rosalie, as mysterious in that light as the young moon, smiled dreamily.

"Why should one think about such things--when there is so much else in