“The matter? No! No, no; of course not!” said Paul Veniza hurriedly. “But I'm sure there is,” said Claire, with a positive' little nod of her head. “With both of you, for that matter. Mr. Bruce has done nothing but fidget with the tassel of that dressing gown for the last half hour.” John Bruce let the tassel fall as though it had suddenly burned his fingers. “I? Not at all!” he denied stoutly. “Oh, dear!” sighed Claire, with mock plaintiveness. “What bores you two men are, then! I wish I could send out--what do you call it?--a thought wave, and inspire some one, and most of all Hawkins, to come over here this evening. He, at least, is never deadly dull.” Neither of the two men spoke. “You don't know Hawkins, do you, Mr. Bruce?” Claire went on. She was smiling now as she looked at John Bruce. “I mean really know him, of course. He's a dear, quaint, lovable soul, and I'm so fond of him.” “I'm sure he is,” said John Bruce heartily. “Even from the little I've seen of him I'd trust him with--well, you know”--John Bruce coughed as his words stumbled--“I mean, I'd take his word for anything.” “Of course, you would!” asserted Claire. “You couldn't think of doing anything else--nobody could. He's just as honest as--as--well, as father there, and I don't know any one more honest.” She smiled at Paul Veniza, and then her face grew very earnest. “I'm going to tell you something about Hawkins, and something that even you never knew, father. Ever since I was old enough to remember any one, I remember Hawkins. And when I got old enough to understand at all, though I could never get him to talk about it, I knew his life wasn't a very happy one, and perhaps I loved him all the more for that reason. Hawkins used to drink a great deal. Everybody knew it. I--I never felt I had the right to speak to him about it, though it made me feel terribly, until--until mother died.” Claire had dropped her sewing in her lap, and now she picked it up again and fumbled with it nervously. “I spoke to him then,” she said in a low voice. “I told him how much you needed him, father; and how glad and happy it would make me. And--and I remember so well his words: 'I promise, Claire. I promise, so help me, God, that I will never drink another drop.'” Claire looked up, her face aglow “And I know, no matter what anybody says, that from that day to this, he never has.” Paul Veniza, motionless now in the center of the room, was staring at her in a sort of numbed fascination. John Bruce was staring at the door. He had heard, he thought, a step in the outer room. The door opened. Hawkins stood there. He plucked at his frayed, black cravat, which was awry. He lurched against the jamb, and in groping unsteadily for support his hat fell from his other hand and rolled across the floor. Hawkins reeled into the room. “Good--hic!--good-evenin',” said Hawkins thickly.