the ring as the emblem of his overlordship.  He did not belong in that house; everything in it cried out for his removal; and yet it was, in the eyes of the law at least, his.  By grace of that fact she was here, enjoying it.  At that instant, as though in evidence of this, he laid down a burning cigarette on a mahogany stand he had had brought out to him.  Honora seized an ash tray, hurried to the porch, and picked up the cigarette in the tips of her fingers.

“Howard, I wish you would be more careful of Mrs. Forsythe’s furniture,” she exclaimed.

“Hello, Honora,” he said, without looking up.  “I see by the Newport paper that old Maitland is back from Europe.  Things are skyrocketing in Wall Street.”  He glanced at the ash tray, which she had pushed towards him.  “What’s the difference about the table?  If the old lady makes a row, I’ll pay for it.”

“Some things are priceless,” she replied; “you do not seem to realize that.”

“Not this rubbish,” said Howard.  “Judging by the fuss she made over the inventory, you’d think it might be worth something.”

“She has trusted us with it,” said Honora.  Her voice shook.

He stared at her.

“I never saw you look like that,” he declared.

“It’s because you never look at me closely,” she answered.

He laughed, and resumed his reading.  She stood awhile by the railing.  Across the way, beyond the wall, she heard Mr. Chamberlin’s shrill voice berating a gardener.

“Howard,” she asked presently, “why do you come to Newport at all?”

“Why do I come to Newport?” he repeated.  “I don’t understand you.”

“Why do you come up here every week?”

“Well,” he said, “it isn’t a bad trip on the boat, and I get a change from New York; and see men I shouldn’t probably see otherwise.”  He paused and looked at her again, doubtfully.  “Why do you ask such a question?”

“I wished to be sure,” said Honora.

“Sure of what?”

“That the-arrangement suited you perfectly.  You do not feel—­the lack of anything, do you?”

“What do you mean?”

“You wouldn’t care to stay in Newport all the time?”

“Not if I know myself,” he replied.  “I leave that part of it to you.”

“What part of it?” she demanded.

“You ought to know.  You do it pretty well,” he laughed.  “By the way, Honora, I’ve got to have a conference with Mr. Wing to-day, and I may not be home to lunch.”

“We’re dining there to-night,” she told him, in a listless voice.

Upon Ethel Wing had descended the dominating characteristics of the elder James, who, whatever the power he might wield in Wall Street, was little more than a visitor in Newport.  It was Ethel’s house, from the hour she had swept the Reel and Carter plans (which her father had brought home) from the table and sent for Mr. Farwell.  The forehanded Reginald arrived with a sketch, and the result, as every one knows,