"Are you at home this afternoon, Sir Artist?" called Mrs. Taine, gaily, as
he went down the walk.

"I will always be at home to the right people," he answered, greeting the
other members of the party.

As they moved toward the house,--Mr. Taine choking and coughing, his
daughter chattering and exclaiming, and James Rutlidge critically
observing,--Mrs. Taine dropped a little back to Aaron King's side. "And
are you really established, at last?" she asked eagerly; with a charming,
confidential air.

"We move to-morrow morning," he answered.

"We?" she questioned.

"Conrad Lagrange and I. He is going to live with me, you know."

"Oh!"

It is remarkable how much meaning a woman can crowd into that one small
syllable; particularly, when she draws a little away from you as she
speaks it.

"Why," he murmured apologetically, "don't you approve?"

Mrs. Taine's beautiful eyebrows went up inquiringly--"And why should I
either approve or disapprove?"