“That is my bad habit, madam. I belong to the generation that smokes--after dinner and most other times--more than is good for us.” Colonel Middleton belonged also to the generation that can carry a sentence through to the finish in handsome style, and he did it with a suave Virginian accent as easy as his seat in the saddle. Mrs. Bogardus always gave him her respectful attention during his best performances, though she was a woman of short sentences herself. “Don't you smoke in this room sometimes?” she asked, with a barely perceptible sniff the merest contraction of her housewifely nostrils. “Ah--h! Those rascally curtains and cushions! You ladies--women, I should say--Moya won't let me say ladies--you bolster us up with comforts on purpose to betray us!” “You can say 'ladies' to me,” smiled the very handsome one before him. “That's the generation _I_ belong to.” The colonel bowed playfully. “Well, you know, I don't detect myself, but there's no doubt I have infected the premises.” “Open fires are good ventilators. I wish you would smoke now. If you don't, I shall have to go away, and I'm exceedingly comfortable.” “You are exceedingly charming to say so--on top of that last stick, too!” The colonel had Irish as well as Virginian progenitors. “Well,” he sighed, proceeding to make himself conditionally happy, “Moya will never forgive me! We spoil each other shamefully when we're alone, but of course we try to jack each other up when company comes. It's a great comfort to have some one to spoil, isn't it, now? I needn't ask which it is in your family!” “The spoiled one?” Mrs. Bogardus smiled rather coldly. “A woman we had for governess, when Christine was a little thing, used to say: 'That child is the stuff that tyrants are made of!' Tyrants are made by the will of their subjects, don't you think, generally speaking?” “Well, you couldn't have made a tyrant of your son, Mrs. Bogardus. He's the Universal Spoiler! He'll ruin my striker, Jephson. I shall have to send the fellow back to the ranks. I don't know how you keep a servant good for anything with Paul around.” “Paul thinks he doesn't like to be waited on,” Paul's mother observed shrewdly. “He says that only invalids, old people, and children have any claim on the personal service of others.” “By George! I found him blacking his own boots!” Mrs. Bogardus laughed. “But I'm paying a man to do it for him. It upsets my contract with that other fellow for Paul to do his work. We have a claim on what we pay for in this world.” “I suppose we have. But Paul thinks that nothing can pay the price of those artificial relations between man and man. I think that's the way he puts it.” “Good Heavens! Has the boy read history? It's a relation that began when the world was made, and will last while men are in it.” “I am not defending Paul's ideas, Colonel. I have a great sympathy with tyrants myself. You must talk to him. He will amuse you.”