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times his deafness was very convenient, more convenient than actual, perhaps; but who could know certainly? “You go up stairs and get those boots off,” Miss Jenny commanded, raising her voice. “I’ll fill the decanter.”
    But within the walled serene tower of his deafness his imperturbability did not falter until the decanter was full and he pinched the tube and raised it and drained it back into the keg. The older dog had not moved, but the younger one had retreated beyond Bayard, where it lay motionless and alert, its head on its crossed forepaws, watching Miss Jenny with one melting unwinking eye. Bayard drew the tube from the keg and looked at her for the first time. “What did you say?”
    But Miss Jenny returned to the door and opened it and shouted into the hall, eliciting an alarmed response from the kitchen, followed presently by Simon in the flesh. “Go up and get Colonel’s slippers,” she directed. When she turned into the room again neither Bayard nor the keg was visible, but from the open closet door there protruded the young dog’s interested hind quarters and the tense feathering of his barometric tail; then Bayard thrust the dog out of the closet with his foot and emerged himself and locked the door behind him.
    “Has Simon come in, yet?” he asked.
    “He’s coming now,” she answered. “I just called him. Sit down and get those wet boots off.” At that moment Simonentered, with the slippers, and Bayard sat obediently and Simon knelt and drew his boots off under Miss Jenny’s martinet eye. “Are his socks dry?” she asked.
    “No’m, dey aint wet,” Simon answered. But she bent and felt them herself.
    “Here,” Bayard said testily, but Miss Jenny ran her hand over both his feet with brusque imperturbability.
    “Precious little fault of his if they aint,” she said across the topless wall of his deafness. “And then you have to come along with that fool yarn of yours.”
    “Section han’ seed ’im,” Simon repeated stubbornly, thrusting the slippers onto Bayard’s feet. “I aint never said I seed him.” He looked up and rubbed his hands on his thighs.
    Bayard stamped into the slippers. “Bring the toddy fixings, Simon.” Then to his aunt, in a tone which he contrived to make casual: “Simon says Bayard got off the train this afternoon.” But Miss Jenny was storming at Simon again.
    “Come back here and get these boots and set ’em behind the stove,” she said. Simon returned and sidled swiftly to the hearth and gathered up the boots. “And take these dogs out of here, too,” she added. “Thank the Lord he hasn’t thought about bringing his horse in with him.” Immediately the old dog came to his feet, and followed by the younger one’s diffident alacrity, departed with that same assumed deliberation with which both Bayard and Simon obeyed Miss Jenny’s brisk implacability.
    “Simon says——” Bayard repeated.
    “Simon says fiddlesticks,” Miss Jenny snapped. “Have you lived with Simon sixty years without learning that he dont know the truth when he sees it?” And she followed Simon from the room and on to the kitchen, and while Simon’s tall yellow daughter bent over her biscuit-board and Simon filled a glass pitcher with fresh water and sliced lemons and set them and asugar bowl and two tall glasses on a tray, Miss Jenny stood in the doorway and curled Simon’s grizzled remaining hair to tighter kinks yet. She had a fine command of language at all times, but when her ire was aroused she soared without effort to sublime heights. Hers was a forceful clarity and a colorful simplicity and a bold use of metaphor that Demosthenes would have envied and which even mules comprehended and of whose intent the most obtuse persons remained not long in doubt; and beneath it Simon’s head bobbed lower and lower and the fine assumption of detached preoccupation moulted like feathers from about him, until he caught up the tray and ducked from the room. Miss