Evidently unfinished sentences were the fashion with her, Barry decided as he followed her into a room which, while it had apparently not been “picked up” since morning, was pleasantly homy in spite of its shabbiness. Evidently, too, it was Mrs. Lyle’s custom to give the maid the whole day off. He set the small basket of grapes on the bright-red cloth of the table and rescued the eggs, now on the very verge of demolition. Mrs. Lyle murmured relief, disencumbered herself of the remaining packages, and smiled at Barry. And right then Barry became her devoted subject. She was small and slight, faded and rather tired-looking; but one knew that not so many years before she had been a very pretty girl. When she smiled she was still pretty. There was a quality in that smile that imbued Barry with an instant desire to perform some service for her. He wondered if she needed any wood chopped or――or anything. He couldn’t remember ever having chopped any wood, but he was eager to do it! “I hope you found everything all right in your room,” Mrs. Lyle was saying. “I meant to be here when you arrived, but I forgot my purse and had to come back for it, and so――” “Oh, yes, thanks!” he declared emphatically. “Everything is fine! That is――well, I wonder, Mrs. Lyle, if I might have a table. Of course if you don’t happen to have one on hand I can get along perfectly.” “A table? Why――but――goodness gracious! there _is_ a table! I mean there _was_ a table! Are you sure――” “It really doesn’t matter,” Barry said earnestly. Mrs. Lyle’s agitation made him regret extremely the introduction of the subject. “But of course it matters! I’ll go up and see what――” Barry followed her. Mrs. Lyle looked perplexedly at Barry. “Why, I don’t see what――where――” Then, however, perplexity vanished. “I know where it is.” She nodded, with conviction. “You wait a minute.” She went out and along the hall. Curious, Barry followed as far as the door. Mrs. Lyle had stopped before the closed portal at the head of the stairs and was knocking on it. “Toby! Toby Nott!” she called. There were faint sounds from beyond the door, then a slightly querulous voice answered: “Yes’m Mrs. Lyle?” “Open the door, Toby.” “I can’t! I――oh, well, all right; only, I’m terribly busy, Mrs. Lyle.” The end of the sentence was delivered through a six-inch aperture. “I’m sorry,” said Mrs. Lyle, “but you can’t have that table, Toby.” “Huh? What table?” “The one that was in Mr. Key’s room. You’ll have to put it back, Toby.” Mrs. Lyle strove to speak firmly, but succeeded only in sounding apologetic.