“Simpson.”

“Simpson.  Ah, yes; very good.  Matilda Simpson—­Angelica Simpson—­and, let us say, Archibald Simpson.  And where was I born, Matilda?”

“You weren’t ever born,” protested Matilda with frightened indignation.

“Now don’t be facetious or superfluous, sister dear,” he said soothingly.  “Granted for the sake of argument I wasn’t ever born.  But where might I have been born?”

“I was born near Albany.”

“Near Albany is perfectly agreeable to me,” said Mr. Pyecroft.  “And how many are there in our family?”

“Just Angelica and me.”

“Then there really is an authentical Angelica?”

“Yes.”

“Excellent.  And our parents?”

“They died when I was a child.”

“I’m grieved, indeed, to learn of it,” said Mr. Pyecroft.  “But I’ll admit it simplifies matters; there’s less to remember.  Angelica, our sister here, who is also visiting you, lives near Syracuse I understood some one to say.  Married or single?”

“Married,” Matilda choked out.

“Her married name?”

“Jones.”

“Angelica Simpson Jones.  Good.  Very euphonious.  And how many little nieces and nephews am I the happy uncle of?”

“She—­she has no children.”

“That’s too bad, for I have a particular fondness for children,” sorrowed Mr. Pyecroft.  “Still, that also simplifies matters, lessening considerably the percentage of chances for regrettable lapses of memory.”

He pursued his genealogical inquiries into all possibly useful details.  And then he sat meditative for a while, gazing amiably about his family circle.  And it was while they were all thus sitting silent, in what in the dim light of the one shaded electric bulb might have seemed to an observer the silence of intimacy, that Jack, who had slipped cautiously downstairs, walked in, behind him Mary.

“Matilda, what’s this mean?” he demanded, with a bewildered look.  “We’ve been wondering why you didn’t come upstairs.”

Mrs. De Peyster turned in her chair, and held her breath, like one beneath the guillotine.  Matilda arose, shaking.

“Who’s this man, Matilda?” Jack continued.

“He—­ah—­er—­he’s—­”

“And, pray, Matilda, who is this?” politely inquired the arisen Mr. Pyecroft, blandly assuming command of the situation.

“Who am I?  Well, you certainly have nerve—­” the astounded Jack was beginning.

“He’s Mr. Jack,” Matilda put in.  “Jack De Peyster.”

“Ah, young Mr. De Peyster!” Mr. Pyecroft’s eyebrows went up slightly and a shrewd light flashed into his rounded eyes and was at once gone, and again his face was blandly clerical.  “It is, indeed, a pleasure to meet you, Mr. De Peyster.  And, pray, who is this?” with a suave gesture toward Mary.

“That, sir, is my wife!” Jack announced, stiff with anger.

Again Mr. Pyecroft’s eyes flashed shrewdly, and again were clerically rounded.