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"Would I not tell my dream, as nice young men in the Bible always did?"

"Yes, so called. He wa'n't a lieutenant then, he was a clerk, like you or me."

"Richard Thorndyke Smith! My dear boy," she cried, while the nieces gasped at each other with gestures and looks all the way between Terpsichore and Melpomene, and then the four cried in chorus, "We know your mother!"

"Doesn't a good story revive the poetry of our actual lives?" He wiped the rim of his cap with a handkerchief of yellow silk enriched at one corner with needlework.

We listened again. "They've gone the wrong way," I said, still savage.

"My dear Smith," said Miss Rothvelt, "keep your trust. But if I part here with these two kind gentlemen--"

"General Austin believes it is. You're being used to bait a trap, Richard."

I said with genuine warmth that if he would give me that man's name--etc.

He waited on the threshold with his dropsical back to me for my last word, and then, still in the same attitude, droned, "O-oh, he's dead. And anyhow," he finished out of sight in the hall, "that's not our way."

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