instinct of man for woman."

"The theory may be correct," admitted Penelope, "though a trifle
idealistic for the twentieth century. Most men," she added drily,
"Regard coaling up the fire as a damned nuisance rather than a 'history
of homage.'"

"It oughtn't to be idealistic." There was a faint note of wistfulness in
Nan's voice. "Why should everything that is beautiful be invariably
termed 'idealistic'? Oh, there are ten thousand things I'd like altered
in this world of ours!"

"Of course there are. You wouldn't be you otherwise! You want a
specially constructed world and a peculiarly adapted human nature. In
fact--you want the moon!"

Nan stared into the fire reflectively.

"I wonder," she said slowly, "if I shall get it?"

Penelope glanced at her sharply.

"It's highly improbable," she said. "But a little philosophy would be
quite as useful--and a far more likely acquisition."

As she finished speaking a bell pealed through the flat--pealed with an
irritable suggestion that it had been rung unavailingly before. Followed
the abigail's footstep as she pursued her unhurried way to answer its
imperative demand, and presently a visitor was shown into the room. He
was a man of over seventy, erect and well-preserved, with white hair and