"Don't you know it isn't the style any longer for a woman to carry her husband in her pocket, Matilda," he answered. "What would Mrs. Cherry Lawrence think of you?" Mrs. Buchanan laughed as she seated herself by him for the moment. "I've just come from Milly's," she said. "I left Caroline there. And Hobson was with her; they had been out motoring on the River Road. Do you suppose--it looks as if perhaps--?" "My dear Matilda," answered the major, "I never give or take a tip on a love race. The Almighty endows women with inscrutable eyes and the smile of the Sphynx for purposes of self-preservation, I take it, so a man wastes time trying to solve a woman-riddle. However, Hobson Capers is running a risk of losing much valuable time is the guess I chance on the issue in question." "And Peyton Kendrick and that nice Yankee boy and--" "All bunched, all bunched at the second post! There's a dark horse running and he doesn't know it himself. God help him!" he added under his breath as she turned to speak to Tempie. "If you don't want her to marry Hobson whom do you choose?" she said returning to the subject. "I wish--I wish--but of course it is impossible, and I'm glad, as it is, that Andrew is indifferent." "Yes," answered the major, "and you'll find that indifference is a hall mark stamped on most modern emotions." CHAPTER V DAVID'S ROSE AND SOME THORNS "Now," said David, "if you'll just put away a few of those ancient pipes and puddle your papers a bit in your own cozy corner we can call these quarters ready to receive the ladies, God bless 'em! Does it look kinder bare to you? We might borrow a few drapes from the madam, or would you trust to the flowers? I'll send them up for you to fix around tasty. A blasted poet ought to know how to bunch spinach to look well." As he spoke David Kildare stood in the middle of the living-room in his bachelor quarters, which were in the Colonial, a tall pillared, wide windowed, white brick apartment-house that stood across the street from the home of Major Buchanan, and surveyed the long rooms upon which he and his man Eph had been expending their energies for more than an hour. Andrew Sevier sank down upon the arm of a chair and lighted a long and villainous pipe. "Trust to the flowers," he answered. "I think Phoebe doesn't care for the drapes of this life so much as some women do and as this is for her birthday let's have the flowers, sturdy ones with stiff stems and good head pieces."