Tarrant did not reappear till Monday evening. He had telephoned to his wife from Boston that on returning to New York he would go straight to the office of The Hour, and that she was not to expect him till dinner. They were dining alone at home, and she had already got into her tea gown and was waiting to hear his latchkey before ringing for dinner. She knew that Lewis, who liked to arrive late when he chose, also liked his food to be as perfectly cooked as when he was on time; and she sometimes felt despairingly that only her mother could have dealt with such a problem.

He came in, hurried and animated, with the slight glow which took the chill from his face when things were prospering. "All he wants to make him really handsome," his wife mused, "is to have real things to do."

"Hullo, my dear; not late, am I? Well, put off dinner a bit, will you? I've been on the jump ever since I left. Here's something to amuse you while I'm changing." He threw a manuscript into her lap, and she saw Vance Weston's name across the page.

"Oh, Lewis! He turned up, then?"

"He condescended to, yes—about an hour ago."

"Well—is it good? You've had time to read it?"

Little non-committal wrinkles formed themselves about his smile as he stood looking down at her. "Yes, I've read it; but I'd rather wait till you have before I tell you what I think. I want your unbiassed opinion—and I also want to jump into my bath." The door closed on him, and she sat absently fingering the pages on her knee. How well she knew that formula: "Your unbiassed opinion." What it meant was, invariably, that he wasn't sure of himself, that he wanted someone else to support his view, or even to provide him with one. After that his judgments would ring out with such authority that people said: "One good thing about Tarrant is that he always knows his own mind."