carefully chosen and prepared.

Truedale was never so much at his ease as when he presided at these
small dinners. He ate little; he chose the rarest bits for his guest; he
talked lightly--sometimes delightfully. At such moments Lynda realized
what he must have been before love and health failed him.

To-night--shut away from all else, the strain of the past weeks ignored,
the long stories deliberately pushed aside--Truedale spoke of the books
he had been reading; Lynda, of her work.

"I have two wonderful houses to do," she said, poising a morsel of food
gracefully. "One is for a couple recently made rich; they do not dare to
move for fear of going wrong. I have that place from garret to cellar.
It's an awful responsibility--but lots of fun!"

"It must be. Spending other people's money and making them as good as
new at the same time, must be rare sport. And the other contract?"

"Oh! that is another matter." Lynda leaned back and laughed. "I'm toning
up an old house. Putting false fronts on, a bit of rouge, filling in
wrinkles; in short, giving a side-tracked old lady something to interest
her. She doesn't know it, but I'm letting her do the work, and she's
very happy. She has a kind of rusty good taste. I'm polishing it without
hurting her. The living room! Why, Uncle William, it is a picture. It is
a tender dream come true."

"And you are charging for that, you pirate?"

"I do not have to. The dear soul is so grateful that I'm forced to