was its mistress. As he sat on the edge of the bed, half-undressed,
and smoked out a pipe, he kept seeing her in memory, as he had seen
her in the flesh the past twelve hours, in her varied moods and
guises--the woman who had talked music with him, and who had expounded
music to him to his delight; who had enticed the sages into the
discussion and abandoned him to arrange the bridge tables for her
guests; who had nestled in the big chair as girlish as the two girls
with her; who had, with a hint of steel, quelled her husband's
obstreperousness when he had threatened to sing Mountain Lad's song;
who, unafraid, had bestridden the half-drowning stallion in the
swimming tank; and who, a few hours later, had dreamed into the dining
room, distinctive in dress and person, to meet her many guests.

The Big House, with all its worthy marvels and bizarre novelties,
competed with the figure of Paula Forrest in filling the content of
his imagination. Once again, and yet again, many times, he saw the
slender fingers of Dar Hyal weaving argument in the air, the black
whiskers of Aaron Hancock enunciating Bergsonian dogmas, the frayed
coat-cuffs of Terrence McFane articulating thanks to God for the two-
legged work-beasties that enabled him to loaf at Dick Forrest's board
and under Dick Forrest's madroño trees.

Graham knocked out his pipe, took a final sweeping survey of the
strange room which was the last word in comfort, pressed off the
lights, and found himself between cool sheets in the wakeful dark.
Again he heard Paula Forrest laugh; again he sensed her in terms of
silver and steel and strength; again, against the dark, he saw that
inimitable knee-lift of her gown. The bright vision of it was almost
an irk to him, so impossible was it for him to shake it from his eyes.
Ever it returned and burned before him, a moving image of light and