Grateful as a tete-a-tete with his old neighbor in her more prosperous surroundings would have been, if only for the sake of later gossiping about it, he felt it would be inconsistent with his pride and his assumption of present business. More than that, he was uneasily conscious that in Mrs. Tucker's simple and unaffected manner there was a greater superiority than he had ever noticed during their previous acquaintance. He would have felt kinder to her had she shown any “airs and graces,” which he could have commented upon and forgiven. He stammered some vague excuse of preoccupation, yet lingered in the hope of saying something which, if not aggressively unpleasant, might at least transfer to her indolent serenity some of his own irritation. “I reckon,” he said, as he moved hesitatingly towards the door, “that Spencer has made himself easy and secure in them business risks he's taking. That 'ere Alameda ditch affair they're talking so much about is a mighty big thing, rather TOO big if it ever got to falling back on him. But I suppose he's accustomed to take risks?” “Of course he is,” said Mrs. Tucker gayly. “He married ME.” The visitor smiled feebly, but was not equal to the opportunity offered for gallant repudiation. “But suppose you ain't accustomed to risks?” “Why not? I married HIM,” said Mrs. Tucker. Mr. Calhoun Weaver was human, and succumbed to this last charming audacity. He broke into a noisy but genuine laugh, shook Mrs. Tucker's hand with effusion, said, “Now that's regular Blue Grass and no mistake!” and retreated under cover of his hilarity. In the hall he made a rallying stand to repeat confidentially to the servant who had overheard them: “Blue Grass, all over, you bet your life,” and, opening the door, was apparently swallowed up in the tempest.