On his native asphalt there are few situations capable of throwing the New York policeman off his balance. In that favored clime, savoir faire is represented by a shrewd left hook at the , and a masterful stroke of the truncheon amounts to a satisfactory . Thus shall you never take the policeman of Manhattan without his answer. In other surroundings, Mr. Patrick McEachern would have known how to deal with his young acquaintance, Mr. Jimmy Pitt. But another plan of action was needed here. First of all, the hints on with which Lady Jane had favored him, from time to time, and foremost came the : "Never make a scene." Scenes, Lady Jane had explained—on the occasion of his knocking down an objectionable cabman during their trip—were of all things what polite society most . The natural man in him must be bound in chains. The sturdy blow must give way to the honeyed word. A cold "Really!" was the most vigorous retort that the best circles would .  
It had cost Mr. McEachern some pains to learn this lesson, but he had done it; and he proceeded on the present occasion to conduct himself high and disposedly, according to instructions from headquarters.
 
The surprise of finding an old acquaintance in this company rendered him dumb for a brief space, during which Jimmy looked after the conversation.
 
"How do you do, Mr. McEachern?" inquired Jimmy . "Quite a surprise meeting you in England. A pleasant surprise. By the way, one generally shakes hands in the smartest circles. Yours seem to be down there somewhere. Might I trouble you? Right. Got it? Thanks!"
 
He forward, himself of Mr. McEachern's right hand, which was hanging limply at its proprietor's side, shook it warmly, and replaced it.
 
"'Wahye?" asked Mr. McEachern gruffly, giving a pleasing air of novelty to the hackneyed salutation by pronouncing it as one word. He took some little time getting into his stride when carrying on polite conversation.
 
"Very well, thank you. You're looking as strong as ever, Mr.
McEachern."
The ex-policeman . In a sense, he was sparring for wind.
 
Molly had her composure by this time. Her father was taking the thing better than she had expected.
 
"It's Jimmy, father, dear," she said. "Jimmy Pitt."
 
"Dear old James," murmured the visitor.
 
"I know, me dear, I know. Wahye?"
 
"Still well," replied Jimmy cheerfully. "Sitting up, you will notice," he added, waving a hand in the direction of his teacup, "and taking . No further bulletins will be issued."
 
"Jimmy is staying here, father. He is the friend Spennie was bringing."
 
"This is the friend that Spennie brought," said Jimmy in a rapid undertone. "This is the all forlorn who crossed the seas, and lived in the house that sheltered the friend that Spennie brought."
 
"I see, me dear," said Mr. McEachern slowly. "'Wah——"
 
"No, I've guessed that one already," said Jimmy. "Ask me another."
 
Molly looked reproachfully at him. His deplorable habit of chaffing her father had caused her trouble in the old days. It may be admitted that this recreation of Jimmy's was not in the best taste; but it must also be remembered that the relations between the two had always been out of the ordinary. Great as was his affection for Molly, Jimmy could not a time when war had not been raging in a greater or degree between the ex-policeman and himself.
 
"It is very kind of you to invite me down here," said he. "We shall be able to have some chats over old times when I was a wanderer on the face of the earth, and you——"
 
"Yis, yis," interrupted Mr. McEachern hastily, "somewhere ilse, aftherward."
 
"You shall choose time and place, of course. I was only going to ask you how you liked leaving the——"
 
"United States?" put in Mr. McEachern, with an eagerness which broadened his questioner's friendly smile, as the Honorable Louis Wesson came toward them.
 
"Well, I'm not after saying it was not a wrinch at firrst, but I considered it best to lave Wall Street—Wall Street, ye understand, before——"
 
"I see. Before you fell a victim to the desire for reckless which is so marked a characteristic of the American business man, what?"
 
"That's it," said the other, relieved.
 
"I, too, have been speculating," said Mr. Wesson, "as to whether you would care to show me the rose garden, Miss McEachern, as you promised yesterday. Of all flowers, I love roses best. You remember Bryant's lines, Miss McEachern? 'The rose that lives its little hour is prized beyond the sculptured flower.'"
 
Jimmy interposed firmly. "I'm very sorry," he said, "but the fact is Miss McEachern has just promised to take me with her to feed the .
 
"I gamble on fowls," he thought. "There must be some in a high-class establishment of this kind."
 
"I'd quite forgotten," said Molly.
 
"I thought you had. We'd better start at once. Nothing upsets a more than having to wait for dinner."
 
"Nonsense, me dear Molly," said Mr. McEachern . "Run along and show Mr. Wesson the roses. Nobody wants to waste time over a bunch of hens."
 
"Perhaps not," said Jimmy thoughtfully, "perhaps not. I might be better employed here, amusing the people by telling them all about our old New York days and——"
 
Mr. McEachern might have been observed, and was so observed by Jimmy, to swallow somewhat convulsively.
 
"But as Molly promised ye——" said he.
 
"Just so," said Jimmy. "My own sentiments, expressed. Shall we start, Miss McEachern?"
 
"That fellah," said Mr. Wesson solemnly to his soul, "is a damn bounder. And cad," he added after a moment's reflection.
 
The fowls lived in a little world of noise and smells at the back of the stables. The first half of the journey was performed in silence. Molly's cheerful little face was set in what she probably imagined to be a forbidding . The of her chin of displeasure.
 
"If a penny would be any use to you," said Jimmy, breaking the tension.
 
"I'm not at all pleased with you," said Molly .
 
"How can you say such things! And me an , too!
What's the trouble? What have I done?"
"You know well. Making fun of father like that."
 
"My dear girl, he loved it. Brainy of that sort is exchanged every day in the best society. You should hear dukes and earls! The wit! the esprit! The flow of soul! Mine is nothing to it. What's this in the iron pot? Is this what you feed them? Queer birds, hens—I wouldn't touch the stuff for a fortune. It looks perfectly poisonous. Flock around, you pullets. Come in your thousands. All bad nuts returned, and a souvenir goes with every . A little more of this putrescent mixture for you, sir. Certainly, pick up your dead, pick up your dead."
 
An dimple appeared on Molly's chin, like a sunbeam through clouds.
 
"All the same," she said, "you ought to be ashamed of yourself,
Jimmy."
"I haven't time when I find myself stopping in the same house with a girl I've been looking for for three years."
 
Molly looked away. There was silence for a moment.
 
"Used you ever to think of me?" she said quietly.
 
That curious which had fallen upon Jimmy in the road came to him again, now, as sobering as a blow. Something which he could not define had changed the atmosphere. Suddenly in an instant, like a shallow stream that runs over the stones into some broad, still pool, the note of their talk had deepened.
 
"Yes," he said simply. He could find no words for what he wished to say.
 
"I've thought of you—often," said Molly.
 
He took a step toward her. But the moment had passed. Her mood had changed in a flash, or seemed to have changed. The stream on over the stones again.
 
"Be careful, Jimmy! You nearly touched me with the spoon. I don't want to be covered with that horrible stuff. Look at that poor, little chicken out there in the cold. It hasn't had a ."
 
Jimmy responded to her lead. There was nothing else for him to do.
 
"It's in luck," he said.
 
"Give it a spoonful."
 
"It can have one if it likes. But it's taking big risks. Here you are,
Hercules. Pitch in."
He scraped the last spoonful out of the iron pot, and they began to walk back to the house.
 
"You're very quiet, Jimmy," said Molly.
 
"I was thinking."
 
"What about?"
 
"Lots of things."
 
"New York?"
 
"That among others."
 
"Dear old New York," said Molly, with a little sigh. "I'm not sure it wasn't—I mean, I sometimes wish—oh, you know. I mean it's lovely here, but it was nice in the old days, wasn't it, Jimmy? It's a pity that things change, isn't it?"
 
"It depends."
 
"What do you mean?"
 
"I don't mind things changing, if people don't."
 
"Do you think I've changed? You said I hadn't when we met in the road."
 
"You haven't, as far as looks go."
 
"Have I changed in other ways?"
 
Jimmy looked at her.
 
"I don't know," he said slowly.
 
They were in the hall, now. Keggs had just left after beating the gong. The echoes of it still lingered. Molly paused on the bottom step.
 
"I haven't, Jimmy," she said; and ran on up the stairs.