"We are. When Mildred's Christmas dinner is over I thank God there
will be three hundred and sixty-five days before she can have another
one. Harrie was all right when he came in, but he took too much
egg-nog, too much of other things Mildred had no business having, I
tried to make him go home with me, but he wouldn't do it. Then I
tried to go with him and he wouldn't let me do that either. Said he
had an engagement with Miss Swink. He was not in a condition to fill
it, but, thinking if she saw him Mrs. Swink might take in what she so
far has failed to understand, I was rather glad he was going to keep
his engagement. He didn't keep it."

"What did he do? Where did he go?"

Selwyn's face darkened. "I don't know. Nobody knows. He hasn't
been in his apartment since Christmas day. His trunk and clothes are
in his rooms, also his suit-cases and bags, and there is no evidence
of his having gone off on a trip. I haven't told Mildred. She'd go
into hysterics and tell the town Harrie had disappeared. Mrs. Swink,
however, had to be told something. Madeleine, I imagine, has given
notice and her mother is sitting up." Selwyn's hands made gesture of
disgust. "Her letter is inquisitorial and hysterical. My answer
will give a bump, I imagine."

"You've clouded visions and waked her from sweet dreaming. She's
been seeing herself in the Thorne house as the mother of its
mistress. I don't mean to laugh, indeed I don't, but--" I did
laugh. Mrs. Swink and Selwyn dwelling under the same roof was a
picture beyond the resistance of laughter. Incompatibility and
incongruity would be feeble terms with which to designate such a