"I am," said I in a sepulchral tone, much as I might have answered to my name at roll-call. "When she comes to town you must let me know--I shall call on her." There was no note but one of kindliness in Penelope's easily modulated voice, nothing but friendliness in the smile which parted her lips. As she leaned forward again, grasping the carved arms of her chair, she was speaking with queenly condescension, and it nettled me to find myself reduced to the level of the herd. So there was in my voice a faint ring of pride when I said: "Gladys is abroad now." At least in this august presence a fiancee abroad sounded more impressive than a fiancee in Harlansburg, and I wanted it known that mine was a woman of the world and not simply the accomplished daughter of a small country town. I think that the point struck home, for a hopeful "Oh!" escaped from Penelope's lips, as though she were giving vent to bottled-up doubts as to whether or not she could ever more than call on Gladys Todd. I think that she divined what I wanted her to understand--that though Gladys Todd had painted tulips on black plaques, she had acquired the dignity that comes with travel and the grace of a widened view. "You must both come and dine with me when she gets home," Penelope said, with a manner of increased interest. "I suppose she is studying, David, music or painting." "Travelling," I answered, encouraged to nonchalance by the impression I was making, for to travel merely sounded much more prosperous than to be working at the rudiments of an art. "She has been over since last May--just travelling around." "And gathering together a trousseau--how delightful! You must be counting the days till she comes home, David?" I nodded. I tried my best to look as though at that very moment I was busy with the fond calculation. "And who is with her--some friend?" Penelope asked. "Her father and mother," I answered. That sounded still more prosperous: the family of three--the learned doctor, his wife and accomplished daughter--wandering where they willed about the world. I should have stopped there, but I am one of those unfortunate persons who in telling anything must tell it all. My better judgment made me hesitate. My habit carried me on. "And Judge Bundy," I added. "Judge who?" she exclaimed. I fancied that I detected a strange note in her voice. "Bundy--Judge Bundy," I replied, my own voice rising to a pitch of irritation.