She was delighted to get him back to foolish talk. His preoccupation had disturbed her. Like Connie Deering, she was femininely conscious that something out of the ordinary had passed between Norma and Jimmie, and apprehension as to her dear one's peace of mind had filled her with many imaginings. He returned a smiling answer. She bestirred herself to amuse. Had he remarked the man in the omnibus? His nose cut it into two compartments. What would he do if he had such a nose? Jimmie felt that he had been selfish and fell into the child's humour. He said that he would blow it. They discussed the subject of noses. He quoted Tristram Shandy. Did she remember him reading to her “Slawkenbergius's Tale”? “The silliest story I ever heard in my life!” cried Aline. “It had neither head nor tail.” “That is the beauty of it,” said Jimmie. “It is all nose.” “No. The only story about a nose that is worth anything,” Aline declared with conviction of her age and sex, “is 'Cyrano de Bergerac.'” She paused as a thought passed swiftly through her mind. “Do you know, if you had a nose like that, you would remind me of Cyrano?” “Why, I don't go about blustering and carving my fellow-citizens into mincemeat.” “No. But you--” She began unreflectingly, then she stopped short in confusion. Cyrano, Roxana, Christian; Jimmie, Norma, Morland--the parallel was of an embarrassing nicety. She lost her head, reddened, saw that Jimmie had filled the gap. “I don't care,” she cried. “You _are_ like him. It's splendid, but it's senseless. You are worth a million of the other man, and she knows it as well as I do.” She vindictively stitched at the cuff. Jimmie made no reply, but lay back smoking his pipe. Aline recovered and grew remorseful. She had destroyed with an idiotic word the little atmosphere of gaiety she had succeeded in creating. She pricked her finger several times At last she rose and knelt by his side. “I'm sorry, Jimmie. Don't be vexed with me.” He looked at her, wrinkling his forehead half humorously, half sadly, and patted her cheek. “No, dear,” he said. “But I think Slawkenbergius's the better tale. Shall I read it you again?” “Oh, no, Jimmie,” cried the girl, half crying, half laughing. “Please don't, for heaven's sake. I've not been as naughty as that!” She resumed her sewing. They talked of daily things. Theodore Weever's purchases. The faun--he was sorry to lose it after its companionship for all these years. He would paint a replica--but it would not be the same thing. Other times, other feelings. Gradually the conversation grew spasmodic, dwindled. Jimmie brooded over his mystery, and Aline stitched in silence. The whirr of the front door-bell aroused them. Aline put down her work. “It's Renshaw,” said Jimmie.