every moment I expected that awful old woman to ask me what I
paid my cook, and when I had changed the color of my
hair--Bella's being black.

Dinner was a half hour late when we finally went out, Jimmy
leading off with Aunt Selina, and I, as hostess, trailing behind
the procession with Mr. Harbison. Dallas took in the two Mercer
girls, for we were one man short, and Max took Anne. Leila Mercer
was so excited that she wriggled, and as for me, the candles and
the orchids--everything--danced around in a circle, and I just
seemed to catch the back of my chair as it flew past. Jim had
ordered away the wines and brought out some weak and cheap
Chianti. Dallas looked gloomy at the change, but Jim explained in
an undertone that Aunt Selina didn't approve of expensive
vintages. Naturally, the meal was glum enough.

Aunt Selina had had her dinner on the train, so she spent her
time in asking me questions the length of the table, and in
getting acquainted with me. She had brought a bottle of some sort
of medicine downstairs with her, and she took a claret-glassful,
while she talked. The stuff was called Pomona; shall I ever
forget it?

It was Mr. Harbison who first noticed Takahiro. Jimmy's Jap had
been the only thing in the menage that Bella declared she had
hated to leave. But he was doing the strangest things: his
little black eyes shifted nervously, and he looked queer.

"What's wrong with him?" Mr. Harbison asked me finally, when he
saw that I noticed. "Is he ill?"