“Yes, the frescoing is lovely--almost all of it. But--whoever could have designed that frieze, Mr. Hawkins?” “Er--that frieze?” repeated the inventor, a little uncomfortably, indicating the insane-looking strip of painting a foot or so wide which ran along under the ceiling. “Yes, it's so funny. Nothing but dots and dots and dots. Whoever could have conceived such an idea?” “Well, I did, Miss Mather,” Hawkins replied. “I designed that myself.” “Oh, did you?” murmured the inquisitive one, going red. Hawkins turned to me, and the girl subsided; but old Mr. Blodgett had overheard. He felt constrained to put in, with his usual tactful thought and grating, nasal voice: “It's hideous--simply hideous. I don't see--I can't see the sense in spending that amount of money in plastering painted roses and undressed young ones all over the ceiling, Herbert.” “No?” said Hawkins between his teeth. “Folly--pure folly,” grunted the old gentleman. “No reason for it--no reason under the sun.” Hawkins at least reserves family dissensions for family occasions. He held his peace and his tongue. “Yes, sir,” persisted Blodgett, “everything else out of the question, the house might catch fire to-night, and your entire stock of painted babies go up in smoke. Then where'd they be? Eh?” “See here,” said Hawkins, goaded into speech, “you just keep your mind easy on that score at least, will you, papa, dear?” “What's that? What's that?” “This house isn't going up in smoke,” went on the inventor tartly. “You can take my word for it.” “Isn't, eh?” jeered the elderly Blodgett with his nasty sneering little chuckle. “And how do you know it's not? Eh? Smarter men than you, my boy, and in better built houses have----” “Look here! This particular place isn't going to burn, because----” Hawkins rapped out. “What isn't going to burn, Herbert?” inquired Mrs. Hawkins, with a cold, warning glance at her husband as she perceived that hostilities were in progress. “Is he teasing you again, papa?” “Teasing me!” sniffed Blodgett with an unpleasant leer at Hawkins. “Teasing that antiquity!” Hawkins growled in my ear. “Say, isn't that enough to----” “Don't whisper, Herbert--it isn't polite,” continued Mrs. Hawkins, the playfulness of her manner somewhat belied by the glitter in her eye. “Let us all into the secret.” “Oh, there's no secret,” said the inventor shortly. “No dance, either,” pouted the girl from Jersey, who was an intimate of the family. It was the signal for the light fantastic business to begin. Hawkins is notoriously out of sympathy with dancing. He took my arm and guided me stealthily from the drawing-room. “Phew!” remarked the inventor when we had settled ourselves up-stairs with a couple of cigars. “Say, Griggs, do you still wonder at crime?” “Meaning?” “Meaning dear papa Blodgett,” snapped Hawkins. “Honestly, do you believe it would be really wicked to lure that old human pussy-cat down cellar and sort of lose him through the furnace-door?”