In the first few minutes of their acquaintance Peter's quick mind had invented several stories to account for his presence there. He hesitated between the advisability of being a doctor, seeking a good site for a sanitarium. ("For patients troubled with insomnia, this would be ideal," Peter grinned to himself.) Or, perhaps, it would awaken more sympathy to have a young wife who was ill, and needed mountain air and seclusion. But before he had talked with the old man very long Peter conceived a deep distaste for subterfuge. "Dammit all, I won't lie to the good old scout unless he makes me," he said to himself, as he watched Walter Lord making his fussy little preparations for supper, and listened to his constant flow of pleasant chatter as he passed back and forth from the kitchen. "Cold lamb and some of Miranda's currant jelly," he said, as he placed a blue platter and a sauce dish filled with a truncated cone of wobbling, clear crimson upon a small table near the west window. "Beautiful, rich colour where the sun strikes it, isn't it?" He stepped back to note the effect. "Let me see, there's a salad, too. Lettuce from our own garden, Mr. Clancy. Pretty late for lettuce, but I plant it right along through the summer and it does real well. Oh, I almost forgot the pot cheese." He bustled out in the kitchen and presently returned with a crisp salad and a yellow bowl brimming with creamy cheese. "The coffee's almost ready, and it'll be good, too," he chuckled. "Miranda thinks strong coffee, three times a day, is bad for my nerves, but I made this myself, and I'll bet you won't get a better cup of coffee at the St. Denis Hotel." (Peter had told him that his home was in New York.) "I used to go there quite a bit when I was younger. It's a grand, good place, don't you think so, Mr. Clancy?" His tone was so wistful, so full of pleasant pictures and recollections, that Peter hadn't the heart to tell him that the old St. Denis had vanished long ago. He only said that it certainly was one of the best places in New York, and let it go at that. In a few minutes they were seated on either side of the little table near the window, a simple but bountiful meal spread between them. The westering sun gleamed on the quaint old blue-and-white china and on the jug of larkspur and madonna lilies which Walter Lord had moved to one side of the table so that he could look at Peter as they ate and talked.