Congdon was outspoken in his admiration. "By the Lord, the climate is getting in its work! Why, Alice, you're radiant. You're ten years younger to-night!" "That's because I'm angry." "What about?" "Your townspeople. Lee has made me feel as if I were the club-bar topic to-night." Congdon became solemn--grim as a brazen image. "Mrs. Congdon, you've been making some of your tactful remarks." "I have not. I've been talking straight from the shoulder, as I advise you to do." He capitulated. "After the turkey. Come on, Ben, we're in for a lecture by the Professor-Doctor Lee Congdon." Under the influence of his humor they took seats about the pretty, candle-lit table as gay a group as the city held--apparently; for Alice was of that temperament which responds quickly and buoyantly to humor, and Frank Congdon never took anything quite seriously--except his portrait-painting. He could do a cake-walk with any one, but he would not discuss art with the unsympathetic. He always had a new story to tell of his amazing experience. Something was always happening to him. Other men come and go up and down the whole earth without an adventure, but no sooner does Frank Congdon slip out of the door than the fates--generally the humorous ones--pounce upon him. Drunken women claim him for a son. Sheriffs arrest him in the mountains and transport him long distances, only to find him the wrong man. Confused Swedish mothers give him babies to hold in the cars, and rush out just in time to get left. And these tales lose nothing in his recount of them.