"Oh, Kathie, I knew there was _something_ I'd forgotten to tell you, my dear; there's a man coming down here. I don't know whether----" She looked up sharply. "A man coming _here_? What for?" she interrupted breathlessly. "Sent to help me about this oil-boring business, my dear." He had lighted his pipe, and was smoking placidly, taking long whiffs between his words. "Well?" impatiently questioned his wife, fixing her bright eyes on his face. "Well--that's all, my dear." She checked an exclamation. "But don't you know anything about him--his name? where he comes from? what he is like?" She was leaning forward against the table, her needle with a long end of yellow silk drawn halfway through her work, held in her upraised hand, her whole attitude one of quivering excitement and expectancy. The man took his pipe from his mouth deliberately, with a look of slow wonder. "Why Kathie, you seem quite anxious. I didn't know you'd be so interested, my dear. Well,"--another long pull at his pipe--"his name's Brook--_Brookfield_, I think." He paused again. "This pipe don't draw well a bit; there's something wrong with it, I shouldn't wonder," he added, taking it out and examining the bowl as though struck with the brilliance of the idea. The woman opposite put down her work and clenched her hands under the table. "Go on, John," she said presently in a tense vibrating voice--"his name is Brookfield. Well, where does he come from?" "Straight from home, my dear, I believe." He fumbled in his pocket, and after some time extricated a pencil with which he began to poke the tobacco in the bowl in an ineffectual aimless fashion, becoming completely engrossed in the occupation apparently. There was another long pause. The woman went on working, or feigning to work, for her hands were trembling a good deal. After some moments she raised her head again. "John, will you mind attending to me one moment, and answering these questions as quickly as you can?" The emphasis on the last word was so faint as to be almost as imperceptible as the touch of exasperated contempt which she could not absolutely banish from her tone. Her husband, looking up, met her clear bright gaze and reddened like a schoolboy. "Whereabouts '_from home_' does he come?" she asked in a studiedly gentle fashion. "Well, from London, I think," he replied, almost briskly for him, though he stammered and tripped over the words. "He's a University chap; I used to hear he was clever--I don't know about that, I'm sure; he used to chaff me, I remember, but----" "Chaff _you_? You have met him then?" "Yes, my dear"--he was fast relapsing into his slow drawl again--"that is, I went to school with him, but it's a long time ago. Brookfield--yes, that must be his name." She waited a moment, then "When is he coming?" she inquired abruptly. "Let me see--to-day's----" "_Monday_," the word came swiftly between her set teeth. "Ah, yes,--Monday--well," reflectively, "_next_ Monday, my dear."