This anecdote, and the close arguments used by Mr Bosenna, plunged Cai in thought; and for the remainder of the meal he sat abstracted, joining by fits and starts in the conversation, now and then raising his eyes to a portrait of the deceased farmer, an enlarged and highly-tinted photograph, which gazed down on him from the opposite wall.  The gaze was obstinate, brow-beating, as though it challenged Cai to find a flaw in the defence:  and Cai, although dimly aware of a fallacy somewhere, could not meet the challenge.  He lowered his eyes again to his plate.  He found himself wondering if, in any future circumstances, Mrs Bosenna would consent to hang the portrait in another apartment. . . .

Into so deep an abstraction it cast him, indeed, that when Mrs Bosenna arose to leave them to their wine and tobacco, he scrambled to his feet a good three seconds too late. . . .  ’Bias (usually lethargic in his movements) was already at the door, holding it open for her.

What was worse—­’Bias having closed the door upon her, returned to his seat with a slight but insufferable air of patronage, and—­passed the decanter of wine to him!

“You’ll find it pretty good,” said ’Bias, dropping into his chair and heavily crossing his legs.

Cai swallowed down a sudden tide of rage.  “After you!” said he with affected carelessness.  “I’ve tasted it afore.”

“Well—­if you won’t—­” ’Bias stretched out a slow arm, filled his glass, and set down the decanter beside his own dessert plate.  “You’ll find those apples pretty good,” he went on, sipping the wine, “though not up to the Cox’s Orange Pippins or the Blenheim Oranges that come along later.”  He smacked his lips.  “You’d better try this port wine.  Maybe ’tis a different quality to what you tasted when here by yourself.”

“Thank ’ee,” answered Cai.  “I said ‘after you.’”

“Oh?” ’Bias pushed the decanter.  “You weren’t very tactful just now, were you?” he asked after a pause. “Is it the same wine?”

“O’ course it is. . . . When wasn’t I tactful?”

“Why, when you upped an’ contradicted her like that.”  ’Bias started to fill his pipe.  “Women are—­what’s the word?—­sensitive; ’specially at their own table.”

“I didn’ contradict her,” maintained Cai.  “Leastways—­”

“There’s no reason to lose your temper about it, is there? . . .  You gave me that impression, an’ if you didn’ give her the same, I’m mistaken.”

“I’m not losin’ my temper.”

“No? . . .  Well, whatever you did, ‘tis done, an’ no use to fret.  Only I want you and Mrs Bosenna to be friends—­she bein’ our landlady, so to speak.”

“Thank ’ee,” said Cai again, holding a match to his pipe with an agitated hand.  “If you remember, I ought to know it, havin’ had all the early dealin’s with her.”

“She’s very well disposed to you, too,” said ’Bias.  “Nothing could have been kinder than the way she spoke when I mentioned this School-Board business:  nothing.  We’d be glad, both of us, to see you fixed up in that job.”