“Good gracious! Don’t you see? They’re women!” He still stared at her, while his incredulous expression slowly changed to one of troubled perplexity. But he said nothing at all, and after a moment more, turned away and went to his room, where he remained until dinner-time. When he appeared at the table, he made no reference to his mistake, but reverted to the topic of which they had been speaking that afternoon before his attention wandered to the horsewomen at the porte cochère. “Prohibition must have altered a great many people’s lives quite violently,” he said. “I suppose it was quite a shock for people who’d always had wine or Scotch at dinner—giving it up so suddenly.” “I suppose so—I don’t know——” A little colour showed below Mrs. Troup’s eyes. “Of course, quite a number of people had supplies on hand when the day came.” “But most of that must be gone by this time.” “Quite a good deal of it is gone, yes; you don’t see wine very often any more. People who have any left are getting very piggish about it, I believe.” “It must be odd,” he said contemplatively, “the whole country’s being absolutely sober and dry, like this.” “Well——” she began; then, after a pause, went on: “It isn’t like that—exactly. You see——” “Oh, of course there would be a few moonshine stills and low dives,” he interrupted. “But people of our circle——” “Aren’t exactly ‘dry,’ Charles.” “But if they have no wine or——” “It’s my impression,” said Mrs. Troup, “that certain queer kinds of whisky and gin——” “But we were speaking of ‘our circle’—the kind of people _we_——” “Yes, I know,” she said. “They carry these liquids about with them in the most exquisite flasks. Jeannette has one—a boy friend gave it to her—and it must have been made by a silversmith who is a real artist. It must have been fearfully expensive.” Mr. Blake’s open mouth remained distended for a moment. “Your Jeannette!” he exclaimed. “Why, she’s only——” “Oh, she’s nineteen,” his sister informed him soothingly. “But was it exactly nice for her to receive such a gift from a young man?” “Oh, he’s one of the nicest boys we know,” Mrs. Troup explained. “They swim together every day.” “‘Swim together’?” her brother inquired feebly. “Yes,” said Mrs. Troup. “His aunt has a tank.” “‘His aunt has a tank,’” the convalescent repeated in a low voice, as if he wished to get the sentence by heart. “‘His aunt has a tank.’” Mrs. Troup coughed placatively. “It may be a little difficult for you to understand,” she said. “Of course, even I feel obliged to have something in the house at home—a certain amount of whisky. I don’t approve of such things, naturally, but Jeannette feels it’s necessary on account of the young men and the other girls. She doesn’t like whisky and never touches it herself.” Jeannette’s uncle uttered a sigh of relief. “I should think not! I was afraid, from what you told me of her flask——” “Oh, in that,” said Mrs. Troup, “she keeps gin.” “Gin?” he said in a whisper. “Gin?”