It was some of this golden wine which Sidney now produced. Henry
drank two glasses, and the tense muscles around his mouth relaxed.
Sidney smiled. "Don't know what gives it that scent and taste, do
you?" asked Sidney. "Well, I know. It's simple enough, but nobody
except Sidney Meeks has ever found it out. I tell you, Henry, if a
man hasn't set the river on fire, realized his youthful dreams, and
all that, it is something to have found out something that nobody
else has, no matter how little it is, if you have got nerve enough to
keep it to yourself."

Henry fairly laughed. His long, hollow cheeks were slightly flushed.
When he got home that night he looked pleasantly at Sylvia, preparing
supper. But Sylvia did not look as radiant as she had done since her
good-fortune. She said nothing ailed her, in response to his inquiry
as to whether she felt well or not, but she continued gloomy and
taciturn, which was most unusual with her, especially of late.

"What in the world is the matter with you, Sylvia?" Henry asked. The
influence of Sidney Meeks's wine had not yet departed from him. His
cheeks were still flushed, his eyes brilliant.

Then Sylvia roused herself. "Nothing is the matter," she replied,
irritably, and immediately she became so gay that had Henry himself
been in his usual mood he would have been as much astonished as by
her depression. Sylvia began talking and laughing, relating long
stories of new discoveries which she had made in the house, planning
for Horace Allen's return.

"He's going to have that big southwest room and the little one out of