A question had been asked him; had been repeated with a slight crescendo of the modulated voice which had played accompaniment to his tragic reminiscence; recalled him to the here and now. From the matron’s surprised look and her wait for some sort of response, he realized that automatic answers didn’t always satisfy. What was it she had asked? “You have a family tree, Mr. Pope—I mean Pape? Pape _is_ such an odd name, isn’t it?” “Sure—that is to say, certainly, madam. A forest of the same.” She frowned in face of his attempt at elegant diction and intent to make her smile. “I fear you don’t quite grasp my meaning. It is the Pape lineage I mean. You can trace it back, I suppose?” Just here was Peter Pape’s cue to spread out all his Stansbury cards upon the table, but in trying to match this mother in rose-hued negligée, he overplayed the hand. “Oh, we go back to the days long before kings and queens or even jacks, Mrs. Sturgis—clear to Adam and Eve and the apple orchard.” This time she beamed. “Indeed! And you have an escutcheon?” Before he could assure her, the daughter of the house clattered in high-heeled boots through the doorway. Irene wore white cloth breeches and a black suede coat, no hat at all and a radiant freshness that took his breath. In the stress of recent doings and undoings, he had forgotten the spectacular beauty of this particular young lady of to-day. Crow-haired was she, bright-cheeked, brighter-lipped. The slight unevenness of her dazzling display of teeth but added piquancy to her smile. She was both strong-built and lithe of body. And as to her mind, never an incipient doubt of her super-desirability weakened that. Truly, she was a vital and vitalizing creature, Irene. It was not unpleasant to have a beautiful girl greet him with frank cordiality. After recent roughnesses of his experience—Well, not since that floral-wreathed sign first had blazed its reassurance into his nostalgic gaze had he been made to feel so welcome. “Oh, you poor man—you poor, dear, bored-to-death man!” she offered with both her hands. “Has my maternal mamma been talking you to pieces about my virtues? I’ll bet you have, at that, you darling villainess!” Freeing one hand, she shook her ivory-handled crop at her protesting parent, then almost at once re-seized Pape’s sunburned paw. “It’s your very own fault I took so long to get ready. Do I hear you asking why, Why-Not? Because your groom rode up on the most satiny black that ever stopped before our domicile, instead of the regular roan I expected. I was all togged out in my new tan covert, but of course had to change in order to be becoming to the black. I’m _never_ late!” _“My dear!”_ There was incredulity in Mrs. Sturgis’ voice. “You mustn’t get nasty, dar-rling. You know that I’m _almost_ never, except to punish people. And of course Mr. Pape and I haven’t got far enough along for me to need to punish him—_not yet_.”