“I have been told—­” thus Deborah easily proceeded, “that for a small house yours contains the most wonderful assortment of interesting objects.  Where did you ever get them?”

“My father was a collector, on a very small scale of course, and my mother had a passion for hoarding which prevented anything from going out of this house after it had once come into it,—­and a great many strange things have come into it.  There have even been bets made as to the finding or not finding of a given object under this roof.  Pardon me, perhaps I bore you.”

“Not at all.  It’s very interesting.  But what about the bets?”

“Oh, just this.  One day two men were chaffing each other in one of the hotel lobbies, and the conversation turning upon what this house held, one of them wagered that he knew of something I could not fish out of my attic, and when the other asked what, he said an aeroplane—­Why he didn’t say a locomotive, I don’t know; but he said an aeroplane, and the other, taking him up, they came here together and put me the question straight.  Mrs. Scoville, you may not believe it, but my good friend won that bet.  Years ago when people were just beginning to talk about air-sailing machines, my brother who was visiting me, amused his leisure hours in putting together something he called a ‘flyer.’  And what is more, he went up in it, too, but he came down so rapidly that he kept quite still about it, and it fell to me to lug the broken thing in.  So when these gentlemen asked to see an aeroplane, I took them into a lean-to where I store my least desirable things, and there pointed out a mass of wings and bits of tangled wire, saying as dramatically as I could:  ‘There she is!’ And they first stared, then laughed; and when one complained:  ’That’s a ruin, not an aeroplane,’ I answered with all the demureness possible; ’and what is any aeroplane but a ruin in prospect?  This has reached the ruin stage; that’s all.’  So the bet was paid and my reputation sustained.  Don’t you find it a little amusing?”

“I do, indeed,” smiled Deborah.  “Now, if I wanted to make the test, I should take another course from these men.  I should not pick out something strange, or big, or unlikely.  I should choose some every-day object, some little matter—­” She paused as if to think.

“What little matter?” asked the other complacently.

“My husband once had a cap,” mused Mrs. Scoville thoughtfully.  “It had an astonishingly broad peak in front.  Have you a cap like that?”

Miss Weeks’ eyes opened.  She stared in some consternation at Mrs. Scoville, who hastened to say: 

“You wonder that I can mention my husband.  Perhaps you will not be so surprised when I tell you that in my eyes he is a martyr, and quite guiltless of the crime for which he was punished.”

“You think that?” There was real surprise in the manner of the questioner.  Mrs. Scoville’s brow cleared.  She was pleased at this proof that her affairs had not yet reached the point of general gossip.