"Have a good nap?" Gilbert inquired; but he really didn't care at all.
Pell, however, took his question seriously.

"Couldn't sleep a wink," he said. "This cursed heat, you know. Glad I don't
have to live in this part of the world all the time."

Uncle Henry leaned forward in his chair, and his eyes followed Pell
expectantly as the latter moved across the low room, a small satchel in
his hands. "You ain't leaving, are you?" he asked.

"No," was the laconic reply.

"I was afraid you wasn't," ventured Uncle Henry; and there was an awkward
pause. Then, "It's pretty hot," the invalid remarked, delighted that no one
had called him to account for his obvious insult. He knew he had all the
advantage of a weak woman. His little throne was immune from attack.

"It's always pretty hot till night--then it's pretty cold," Pell said.

"What've you got that bag for?" Uncle Henry pursued. No one was ever more
frankly curious than Uncle Henry.

"Company, my dear sir," Pell quickly retorted, not a little annoyed at the
question; and he glared at the old man. He had had two days of him, and was
getting used to him. Lucia, who had remained silent by the door, saw the
cloud on her husband's face, and gave a little, startled "Oh!" It was
hardly more than a whisper, but Pell was swift to catch it. He turned on
her, and took in her radiant figure.

"So there you are!" he half sneered. "Been riding?"