insinuations into his revery at length made him turn. A straight avenue
of pear-shaped, fifteen-year-old maples led to the house, a massive
colonial structure of wood that stretched across the shelf; and he had
tightened the reins and started courageously up the avenue when he
perceived that it ended in a circle on which there was no sign of a
hitching-post. And, worse than this, on the balconied, uncovered porch
which he would have to traverse to reach the doorway he saw the sheen and
glimmer of women's gowns grouped about wicker tables, and became aware
that his approach was the sole object of the scrutiny of an afternoon tea
party.

As he reached the circle it was a slight relief to learn that Pepper was
the attraction. No horse knew better than Pepper when he was being
admired, and he arched his neck and lifted his feet and danced in the
sheer exhilaration of it. A smooth-faced, red-cheeked gentleman in gray
flannels leaned over the balustrade and made audible comments in a
penetrating voice which betrayed the fact that he was Mr. Humphrey Crewe.

"Saw him on the street in Ripton last year. Good hock action, hasn't
he?--that's rare in trotters around here. Tried to buy him. Feller
wouldn't sell. His name's Vane--he's drivin' him now."

A lady of a somewhat commanding presence was beside him. She was perhaps
five and forty, her iron-gray hair was dressed to perfection, her figure
all that Parisian art could make it, and she was regarding Austen with
extreme deliberation through the glasses which she had raised to a
high-bridged nose.

"Politics is certainly your career, Humphrey," she remarked, "you have
such a wonderful memory for faces. I don't see how he does it, do you,