parties, bridge-madness, illicit love-making. I could never be quite
sure whether Elise really loved dignified living for its own sake, or
whether she was sufficiently discriminating to recognize the kind of
bait which would lure the fine souls whose presence gave to her
hospitality the stamp of exclusiveness.

They had a small car, and it was when Jimmie motored up to Washington
that we saw him. He had a fashion of taking us out to lunch, two at a
time. When he asked me, he usually asked Duncan Street. Duncan and I
have worked side by side for twenty-five years. There is nothing in the
least romantic about our friendship, but I should miss him if he were to
die or to resign from office. I have little fear of the latter
contingency. Only death, I feel, will part us.

In our moments of reunion Jimmie always talked a great deal about
himself. The big play was, he said, in the back of his mind. "Elise says
that I can do it," he told us one day over our oysters, "and I am
beginning to think that I can. I say, why can't you old dears in the
office come down for Christmas, and I'll read you what I've written."

We were glad to go. There were to be no other guests, and I found out
afterward that Elise rarely invited any of their fashionable friends
down in winter. The place showed off better in summer with the garden,
and the vines hiding all deficiencies.

We arrived in a snow-storm on Christmas Eve, and when we entered the
house there was a roaring fire on the hearth. I hadn't seen a fire like
that for thirty years. You may know how I felt when I knelt down in
front of it and warmed my hands.