myself in the
blankets, and laid down between the four pineapple-topped posts. This
time I kept the flashlight at my hand. But almost at once I slept, and
slept heavily far into a bright, windy March morning.

CHAPTER III

"Wide is the seat of the man gentle of speech."
--INSTRUCTION OF KE' GEMNI.

On the second day after my return to New York, my Aunt Caroline Knox
called me up on the telephone.

There are reasons why I always feel myself at a disadvantage with Aunt
Caroline. The first of these brings me to a trifling matter that I
should have set down before, but which I have made a habit of ignoring
so far as possible in both thought and speech. As was Lord Byron, I am
slightly lame. I admit that is the only quality in common; still, I like
the romantic association. Now, my limp is very slight, and I never have
found it interfered much with things I cared to do. In fact, I am
otherwise somewhat above the average in strength and vigor. But from my
boyhood Aunt Caroline always made a point of alluding to the physical
fact as often as possible. She considered that course a healthful
discipline.

"My nephew," she was accustomed to introduce me. "Lame since he was
seven. Roger, do not scowl! Yes; run over trying to save a pet dog. A
mongrel of no value whatever!"

Which would have left some doubt as to whether she referred to poor
Tatters or to me, had it not been for her exceeding pride in our family
tree.

The second reason for my disadvantage before her, was her utter contempt
for my profession as a composer of popular music.

Today her voice came thinly to me across the long-distance wire.

"Your Cousin Phillida has failed in her examinations again," she
announced to me, with a species of tragic repose. "In view of her
father's intellect and my--er--my family's, her mental status is
inexplicable. Although, of course, there is your own case!"

"Why, she is the most educated girl I know," I protested hastily.

"I presume you mean best educated, Roger. Pray do not quite lose your
command of language."

I meant exactly what I had said. Phillida has studied since she was
three years old, exhaustively and exhaustedly. A vision of her plain,
pale little face rose before me when I spoke. It is a burden to be the
only child of a professor, particularly for a meek girl.

"She has studied insufficiently," Aunt Caroline pursued. "She is
nineteen, and her position at Vass