period for most of the guests covered a generous and leisurely ten days,
with enough departures and arrivals to give that variety which is
necessary among even the most entertaining and agreeable people. Our
skilful hostess had assembled us in the country, beneath a roof of New
York luxury, a luxury which has come in these later days to be so much
more than princely. By day, the grounds afforded us both golf and tennis,
the stables provided motor cars and horses to ride or drive over
admirable roads, through beautiful scenery that was embellished by a
magnificent autumn season. At nightfall, the great house itself received
us in the arms of supreme comfort, fed us sumptuously, and after dinner
ministered to our middle-aged bodies with chairs and sofas of the highest
development.

The plan devised by our hostess, Mrs. Davenport, that a story should be
told by one of us each evening, had met with courtesy, but not I with
immediate enthusiasm. But Mrs. Davenport had chosen her guests with her
usual wisdom, and after the first experiment, story telling proved so
successful that none of us would have readily abandoned it. When the time
had come for Richard Field to entertain the company with the promised
tale from his life experience, his hope of escaping this ordeal had
altogether vanished.

Mrs. Field, it had been noticed as early as breakfast time, was inclined
to be nervous on her husband's account. Five years of married life had
not cured her of this amiable symptom, and she made but a light meal. He,
on the other hand, ate heartily and without signs of disturbance.
Apparently he was not even conscious of the glances that his wife so
frequently stole at him.

"Do at least have some omelet, my dear," whispered Mrs. Davenport