This was the first reference that any one had made to the grand _coup_—to the winning ticket—a reticence which had, no doubt, increased Godfrey’s puzzle. He could not put questions himself, but I had seen him eyeing Lucinda’s black frock; Arsenio too was uncommonly shabby; and, as the latter had incidentally mentioned, I was paying rent: “I can’t afford not to charge it,” he had added with a rueful air, ostentatiously skirting the topic. Now he took it up, quite artificially. “Ah, that bit of luck! Oh, all to the good! It settles our future—doesn’t it, Lucinda?” (Here came one of her rare faint smiles.) “But we’re simple folk with simple tastes. We haven’t substantially altered our mode of living. Lucinda has her work—she likes it. I stick on in the old ancestral garrets.” (“Ancestral” was stretching things a bit—his father had bought the _palazzo_, and re-christened it.) “But we shall find a use for that windfall yet. Still, now you’ve come, we really must launch out a bit. Julius is one of the family—almost; but you’re an honored guest. Mustn’t we launch out a little, Lucinda?” “Do as you like. It’s your money,” she answered. “At least, what you don’t owe of it is.” Then, at that, for a sudden short moment, the real man broke through. “Then none of it’s mine, because I owe it all to you,” he said. The words might have been a continuation of his mockery; they would have borne that construction. But they were not; his voice shook a little; his mind was back on Number Twenty-one and what that meant—or had meant—to him. But he recovered his chosen tone in an instant. “And behold her generosity! She gives it back to me—she won’t touch a penny of it!” At that a sudden gleam of intelligence shot into Godfrey’s eyes. He fixed them inquiringly on Lucinda. She was in great looks that evening—in her plain, close-fitting, black frock, with never an ornament save a single scarlet flower in her fair hair; he might well look at her; but it was not her beauty that drew his gaze at that moment. He was questioning more than admiring. She gave him back his look steadily, smiling a little, ready to let him make what he could of her husband’s exclamation. “Let me give one dinner party out of it,” implored Arsenio. “Just we four—a perfect _partie carrée_. If I do, will you come to it, Lucinda?” She gave him an amused little nod; he had touched her humor. “Yes, if you give Mr. Frost a dinner, I’ll come,” she said. “What day?” “Why, the first on which we can eat a dinner! And that’s to-morrow! Upstairs—in my apartment?” “No—here—if Julius will let us,” she said mildly, but very firmly. “You accept, Mr. Frost? And we’ll all dress up and be smart,—to honor Mr. Frost, and Arsenio’s banquet.”