It seems that Brassid, weary and seeking seclusion, arrived on the last train of a Wednesday night. The man who carried his bag up from the little station told him that the Crazy-Quilt House was a sanatorium for women with head-trouble. It appeared that Brassid and the porter, who was also many other things at the hotel, would be the only men in the house—a state of affairs which immediately created a subtle camaraderie between the two men, though the porter was colored. “Call me in time for the first train up to-morrow morning,” said Brassid, as the friendly porter dragged himself out of his room. “It goes at six o’clock, sir,” warned the porter, perhaps wishing to detain him a little longer, for already the porter liked Brassid amazingly. Did I mention that every one did this, in spite of his ferocity? “No matter,” said Brassid, shivering at the thought of the unearthly hour—and of the ladies with head-trouble—Brassid, who composed poems in bed until ten in the morning! “All right, sir,” said the porter, as if warning Brassid that he would regret it. However, that was why Brassid appeared at the dinner-table in a dinner-coat—because he knew that the invalid ladies would be there—and that thus it would be easier for him. There were six, and one vacant place—opposite. The lady on his left put up her lorgnon in haste. The one at the top of the table put something like a pepper-box into her ear and leaned to listen. “Lovely weather!” said Brassid. “Rheumatic weather!” said the lady with the pepper-box. “It’s no such thing!” said the lady who took snuff. “It’s asthmatic!” Something dropped with a small clatter into Brassid’s plate. The lady on his left flung her lorgnon to her eyes. Miss Carat jammed her pepper-box to her ear. Some one laughed, then checked it. An old locket, in the fashion of a heart, lay in Brassid’s plate. A bit of ribbon gave evidence of some severed attachment. Brassid was hopelessly fitting back to its place a flake of blue enamel. He tried to discourage the interest in his keepsake by covering it with his napkin. Then he looked up. The vacant seat was occupied, and the lady was trying to smother her laughter. Brassid got red and crunched the napkin in a way which said plainly, “So it was _you_ who laughed!” She did it again. He restored the piece of napery with a brave nonchalance, and took up the locket. The lady’s eyes retorted as plainly as her lips could have done, “Too late!” He remembered precisely how they did it,—out of the tops of their firm white lids,—with a movement which was personal, a fascination which was irresistible. He was to read other speeches of these eyes, often repeated. But he was to read this one only once more. Well, Brassid broke his guard and laughed with her. “It is no laughing matter,” said the lady with the lorgnon, fixing the lady who had laughed with its stare.