_Miss Reed_, suddenly shutting the register on her side: “Oh!” _Miss Spaulding_, looking up from her music: “What is it, Ethel?” _Miss Reed_: “Nothing, nothing; I—I—thought it was getting too warm. Go on, dear; don’t let me interrupt you.” After a moment of heroic self-denial she softly presses the register open with her foot. _Ransom_, coming back to the register: “It all began in that way. I had the good fortune one day to rescue her from a—cow.” _Miss Reed_: “Oh, for shame!” _Miss Spaulding_, desisting from her piano: “What _is_ the matter?” _Miss Reed_, clapping the register to: “This ridiculous book! But don’t—don’t mind me, Nettie.” Breathlessly: “Go—go—on!” _Miss Spaulding_ resumes, and again _Miss Reed_ softly presses the register open. _Ransom_, after a pause: “The cow was grazing, and had no more thought of hooking Miss”— _Miss Reed_: “Oh, I didn’t suppose he _would_!—Go on, Nettie, go on! The hero—_such_ a goose!” _Ransom_: “I drove her away with my camp-stool, and Miss—the young lady—was as grateful as if I had rescued her from a menagerie of wild animals. I walked home with her to the farm house, and the trouble began at once.” Pantomime of indignant protest and burlesque menace on the part of _Miss Reed_. “There wasn’t another well woman in the house, except her friend Miss Spaulding, who was rather old and rather plain.” He takes another turn to the window. _Miss Reed_: “Oh!” She shuts the register, but instantly opens it again. “Louder, Nettie.” _Miss Spaulding_, in astonishment: “What?” _Miss Reed_: “Did I speak? I didn’t know it. I”— _Miss Spaulding_, desisting from practice: “What is that strange, hollow, rumbling, mumbling kind of noise?” _Miss Reed_, softly closing the register with her foot: “I don’t hear any strange, hollow, rumbling, mumbling kind of noise. Do you hear it _now_?” _Miss Spaulding_: “No. It was the Brighton whistle, probably.” _Miss Reed_: “Oh, very likely.” As _Miss Spaulding_ turns again to her practice _Miss Reed_ re-opens the register and listens again. A little interval of silence ensues, while _Ransom_ lights a cigarette. _Grinnidge_: “So you sought opportunities of rescuing her from other cows?” _Ransom_, returning: “That wasn’t necessary. The young lady was so impressed by my behavior, that she asked if I would give her some lessons in the use of oil.” _Grinnidge_: “She thought if she knew how to paint pictures like yours she wouldn’t need any one to drive the cows away.” _Ransom_: “Don’t be farcical, Grinnidge. That sort of thing will do with some victim on the witness-stand who can’t help himself. Of course I said I would, and we were off half the time together, painting the loveliest and loneliest bits around Ponkwasset. It all went on very well, till one day I felt bound in conscience to tell her that I didn’t think she would ever learn to paint, and that—if she was serious about it she’d better drop it at once, for she was wasting her time.”