the grate in the fireplace; but Mrs. Richie looked at the clock.
She was tired, and sometimes her good neighbor stayed very late.

"Poor Blair!" she said. "I'm afraid his dinner was rather a
disappointment. What charming manners he has," she added,
meditatively; "I think it is very remarkable, considering--"

Mr. Ferguson knocked off his glasses. "Mrs. Maitland's manners
may not be as--as fine-ladyish as some people's, I grant you," he
said, "but I can tell you, she has more brains in her little
finger than--"

"Than I have in my whole body?" Mrs. Richie interrupted gaily; "I
know just what you were going to say."

"No, I wasn't," he defended himself; but he laughed and stopped
barking.

"It is what you thought," she said; "but let me tell you, I
admire Mrs. Maitland just as much as you do."

"No, you don't, because you can't," he said crossly; but he
smiled. He could not help forgiving Mrs. Richie, even when she
did not seem to appreciate Mrs. Maitland--the one subject on
which the two neighbors fell out. But after the smile he sighed,
and apparently forgot Mrs. Maitland. He scratched a match, held
it absently until it scorched his fingers; blew it out, and
tossed it into the lilies; Mrs. Richie winced, but Mr. Ferguson
did not notice her; he leaned forward, his hands between his
knees, the unlighted cigar in his fingers: "Yes; she threw me