“Great company that,” he mused to himself as he let himself out of the apartment.  And as he walked slowly across the street and into the Buchanan house, Fate took up the hand of Andrew Sevier and ranged his trumps for a new game.

In the moment he parted the curtains and stepped into the library the old dame played a small signal, for there, in the major’s wide chair, sat Caroline Darrah Brown with her head bent over a large volume spread open upon the table.

“Oh,” she said with a quick smile and a rose signal in her cheeks, “the major isn’t here!  They came for him to go out to the farm to see about—­about grinding something up to feed to—­to—­something or sheep—­or—­,” she paused in distress as if it were of the utmost importance that she should inform him of the major’s absence.

“Silo for the cows,” he prompted in a practical voice.  It was well a practical remark fitted the occasion for the line from old Ben Jonson, which David had only a few hours ago accused him of plagiarizing, rose to the surface of his mind.  Such deep wells of eyes he had never looked into in all his life before, and they were as ever, filled to the brim with reverence, even awe of him.  It was a heady draught he quaffed before she looked down and answered his laconic remark.

“Yes,” she said, “that was it.  And Mrs. Matilda and Phoebe motored out with him and David went on his horse.  I am making calls, only I didn’t.  I stopped to—­” and she glanced down with wild confusion, for the book spread out before her was the major’s old family Bible, and the type was too bold to fail to declare its identity to his quick glance.

“Don’t worry,” he hastened to say, “I don’t mind.  I read it myself sometimes, when I’m in a certain mood.”

“It was for David—­he wanted to read something to Phoebe,” she answered in ravishing confusion, and pointed to the open page.

Thus Andrew Sevier was forced by old Fate to come near her and bend with her over the book.  The tip of her exquisite finger ran along the lines that have figured in the woman question for many an age.

“’For her price is far above rubies.  The heart of her husband doth safely trust in her’”—­and so on down the page she led him.

“And that was what the trouble was about,” she said when they had read the last word in the last line.  She raised her eyes to his with laughter in their depths.  “It was a very dreadful battle and Phoebe won.  The major found this for him to read to her and she said she did not intend to go into the real estate business for her husband or to rise while it was yet night to give him his breakfast.  Aren’t they funny, funny?” and she fairly rippled with delight at her recollection of the vanquishing of the intrepid David.

“The standards for a wife were a bit strenuous in those days,” he answered, smiling down on her.  “I’m afraid Dave will have trouble finding one on those terms.  And yet—­” he paused and there was a touch of mockery in his tone.