endid figure, with
its Apollo head, advanced. Bambi, too, was struck with some new alive
quality in Jarvis that was compelling.

"This is Mr. Strong, Jarvis." The two men measured each other swiftly.

"I am glad to meet you," said Jarvis, with determined politeness.

"Thank you. It's a pleasure to meet Mrs. Jocelyn's husband."

Bambi laughed.

"Mrs. Jocelyn's husband is a new role for Jarvis," said she.

"I understand you and Mrs. Jocelyn are old friends," said Jarvis,
perfunctorily.

"We are indeed old and dear friends."

"It has been some years since you met?"

"Yes, although I couldn't realize it this morning. There is a vivid
quality about Mrs. Jocelyn which makes it impossible to forget anything
about her. Don't you think so?"

Jarvis looked at Bambi, who grinned.

"Do you find me vivid, Jarvis?"

"You are certainly highly coloured."

"Ugh! That sounds like a Sunday supplement."

Conversation limped along like a tired cab horse. Even Bambi could not
prod it into a semblance of life. Besides, she was choked with laughter
at the picture of Jarvis sitting up, during his sacred work hours, full
of bromides and manners. A discussion of New York almost released him.
He thundered against modern cities with force. New York, discovered to
be the home of Strong, became anathema to his host. It was the Goliath
of Tyranny, Wealth, Degeneration, against which, David-like, he aimed
his sling. Strong led him on, interested in his personality.

"Mrs. Jocelyn does not share your opinion of New York?"

"There are many of my opinions in which Mrs. Jocelyn does not share."

"Fortunately. Same opinions ought to constitute grounds for divorce,"
said Bambi.

"I understand you write plays, Mr. Jocelyn?"

"I do."

"You will have to endure New York, now and again, I suppose, when you
begin to produce."

"We have formed a partnership," Bambi interpolated. "He writes and I
sell."

"You are a lucky man," Strong complimented him.

Jarvis ignored the remark. Strong wondered why on earth Bambi had
married him. He was wonderful to look at, but his manners were
impossible. If he was in love with her, he disguised it successfully.
The entrance of the Professor saved the situation.

"This is Mr. Strong, Professor. My father, Professor Parkhurst."

The Professor's hand-clasp and absent-minded smile seemed like a perfect
character make-up. It was the kind of thing David Warfield would have
played excellently. Strong had