"Hey? The house? Oh, yes, I was going to tell you about that, it all comes out now, the rent hasn't been paid, not one cent, since the first six months! Gwynne's going to bring suit. He said he wouldn't do it on his own account, but he's Sam's guardian--you knew about Sam being out at the asylum, or whatever Sheckard calls his place?--and he was responsible for Sam's money. I guess he had a devil of a row with Pallinder--he wouldn't talk about it. You'd think anyone could have seen all along that the colonel was nothing but an old bunco-steerer, but I suppose Gwynne actually thought he was all right until this came up!" "The idea of accepting the Pallinders' hospitality doesn't sit heavy on your conscience at any rate," said the doctor. Archie looked up, surprised; then he flushed a little and laughed. "Why, no, why should it? Pallinder's debts aren't worrying me any. And as for talking about him, why, Doctor, it's been all over town the last three days." The doctor's wine and the Pallinder's affairs circulated in about equal proportion; and there was a good deal of speculation as to how long the present state of things would last--how long the colonel could hold out. "I hope nothing's going to happen--not while that Miss Baxter, that nice English girl is here, that's all--the papers always go for anything of that kind tooth-and-nail," said J. B.'s neighbour. "And you know, after all, in his way, he's been kind of pleasant to know--I've had some awfully good times up there." "So have I. It seems low-down talking this way, but everybody does," said J. B. The other let his eyes rest on J. B. a moment, half-amused, half-inquisitive. "I wonder--I do wonder what she thinks of us anyway." "She? Who?" "Why, Miss Baxter." "Pretty small potatoes, I guess," said J. B. absently, one eye on Teddy. "She thinks _you're_ all right, old man." "Bosh!" said J. B., resenting the tone more than the words. "She told me the other day she thought Breckinridge was a beautiful name. 'Why, Miss Baxter,' I said, 'you ought to go to Kentucky; that's J. B.'s old home. It's so full of Breckinridges, you can't throw a stone without hitting one of 'em!' 'Really?' she says, just like that. 'Really?' She thought I was in earnest!" "Every Breckinridge you hit would have a gun in one hip-pocket and a flask in the other," said J. B., turning the talk from Muriel as best he could. "Bad men to throw stones at, on the whole----" "Champagne, sir?" "No! Good Heavens, do you suppose the doctor expects us to eat all that pudding and jelly stuff, and fruit and nuts and cheese into the bargain? It's--what d'ye call it?--Homeric, that's what it is--a Homeric feast!"