“Carmen is out,” she remarked; “otherwise you should be served in greater style.”

“Carmen?”

“Carmen is our maid, butler and valet,” she explained.  “It’s such a relief to get her out of the way once in a while and have the house all to oneself.  That’s one of the reasons I enjoy our two-weeks’ camping trip so much every summer.”

“You like the woods?”

“Better than anything, I think—­except just being at home here.  And the children have the time of their lives—­fishing and climbing trees, and watching for deer in the boguns.”

The gate clicked at that moment and Hastings, golf bag on shoulders, came up the path.  He looked lean, brown, hard and happy.

“Just like me to be late!” he apologized.  “I had no idea it would take me so long to beat Colonel Bogey.”

“Your excuses are quite unnecessary.  Mrs. Hastings and I have discovered that we are natural affinities,” said I.

My stenographer, quite at ease, leaned his sticks in a corner and helped himself to a cup of tea and a couple of sandwiches, which in my opinion rivaled my eggs and milk of the early afternoon.  My walk had made me comfortably tired; my lungs were distended with cool country air; my head was clear, and this domestic scene warmed the cockles of my heart.

“How is the Chicopee & Shamrock reorganization coming on?” asked Hastings, striving to be polite by suggesting a congenial subject for conversation.

“I don’t know,” I retorted.  “I’ve forgotten all about it until Monday morning.  On the other hand, how are your children coming on?”

“Sylvia is out gathering chestnuts,” answered Mrs. Hastings, “and Tom is playing football.  They’ll be home directly.  I wonder if you wouldn’t like Jim to show you round our place?”

“Just the thing,” I answered, for I guessed she had household duties to perform.

“Of course you’ll stay to supper?” she pressed me.

I hesitated, though I knew I should stay, all the time.

“Well—­if it really won’t put you out,” I replied.  “I suppose there are evening trains?”

“One every hour.  We’ll get you home by ten o’clock.”

“I’ll have to telephone,” I said, remembering my wife’s regular Saturday-night bridge party.

“That’s easily managed,” said Hastings.  “You can speak to your own house right from my library.”

Again I barefacedly excused myself to my butler on the ground of important business.  As we strolled through the gateway we were met by a sturdy little boy with tousled hair.  He had on an enormous gray sweater and was hugging a pigskin.

“We beat ’em!” he shouted, unabashed by my obviously friendly presence.  “Eighteen to nothing!”

“Tom is twelve,” said Hastings with a shade of pride in his voice.  “Yes, the schools here are good.  I expect to have him ready for college in five years more.”

“What are you going to make of him?” I asked.