"To my master first," she said, presenting the steaming cup to Herman, who received it much as one might a gift from the skies. "I learned my coffee making," she continued, "from an old Arab at Cairo, who used to say that it was one of the only two things in life worth doing, the other being the duties of religion; and it therefore should be perfectly done." "It is simply divine," the sculptor said. "I have never really tasted coffee before. Only if it is made like this your Arab might have said there was but one thing in life, for this becomes a religious duty." One by one with equal care were prepared cups for the others, who were neither slow nor perfunctory in their endorsement of the sculptor's praise. XIV. THIS IS NOT A BOON. Othello; iii.--3. "'I strew these opiate flowers On thy restless pillow;'" Hummed Grant Herman to himself, taking his lonely way down the dim and dingy streets leading to the wharves where he had his abode: "'I strew these opiate flowers--' Oh, what a woman she is! She might be Brunhilde, or she might be Burd Helen; 'I strew these--' I wonder what she had to say to Fenton that she made him stay. Confound that fellow! I'm not more than half sure that I'm fond of him; though I can't bring myself fairly and squarely to dislike him. But I wish he didn't know Mrs. Greyson quite so well; he's going to be married, too. I wonder how he came to know her, any how. It is strange she doesn't wear black if she is a widow. I'd like to learn something more definite about her, but Fenton's the only one who would be likely to know, and I certainly will not ask him. I suppose he is there yet, lounging in some sort of an outlandish shape." Arthur was indeed still in Helen's parlor, and in as crooked an attitude as a man ever compassed. He had so managed to dispose of himself over three chairs as to give the general effect of having been suddenly arrested in the midst of an acrobatic feat of unusual difficulty, and with a cigar in his long, nervous fingers, was watching Mrs. Greyson, who occupied herself in tidying the room a little. "We have been too good friends," she said, "to say good-by in public. The old days have been pleasant, and it is hard to give them up." "You have insisted upon it that they are gone forever," he returned, "until I almost begin to believe you. But it is no matter. _Che sarà sarà_." "Yes; _che sarà sarà_," she echoed. "But now are you willing to do me a favor? I haven't asked many of you." "You certainly deserve that I should say yes without a quibble," replied Fenton, "but your air is so serious that I do not dare run the risk; so I will merely answer,--I would like to do you a favor if I may."