The rector, taking up a great deal of room in the small office, was on
his knees, puffing at the fire until his face was scarlet. "Yes. I don't
believe that woman of yours half looks after your comfort, Denner. Can't
be a good housekeeper, or she would not let this stove get so choked with
ashes."

"No," Mr. Denner acknowledged--"ah--I am inclined to agree with you,
doctor. Not perhaps a really good housekeeper. But few women are,--very
few. You do not find a woman like Miss Deborah Woodhouse often, you
know."

"True enough," said Dr. Howe, pulling on his big fur gloves. "That
salad of hers, the other night, was something to live for. What is
that?--'plunge his fingers in the salad bowl'--'tempt the dying anchorite
to eat,'--I can't remember the lines, but that is how I feel about Miss
Deborah's salad." The rector laughed in a quick, breezy bass, beat his
hands together, and was ready to start.

"Yes," said Mr. Denner, "just so,--quite so. But Miss Deborah is a
remarkable woman, an estimable woman. One scarcely knows which is the
more admirable, Miss Deborah or Miss Ruth. Which should you--ah--which do
you most admire?"

The rector turned, with one hand on the door-knob, and looked at the
lawyer, with a sudden gleam in his keen eyes. "Well, I am sure I don't
know. I never thought of comparing them. They are both, as you say,
estimable ladies."

"Oh, yes, yes, just so," said Mr. Denner hurriedly. "I only mentioned it
because--it was merely in the most general way; I--I--did not mean to