which he saw about him. Inez Thayer was received into Helen’s welcoming arms soon after luncheon, and was at once installed in the best guest-chamber for an extended visit. Two dusty vetture brought the Sinclair girls, Emory and Eustis, in time for dinner, each driver striving to deliver his passengers first in anticipation of an extra pourboire. The company was therefore complete, and each member quite in the spirit of the occasion.

The great candelabra cast their light upon the animated party seated about the table in such a manner that the old paintings hanging upon the walls of the high room were but dimly visible. The long windows were open, and the light breeze just cooled the air enough to mellow the temperature, without so much as causing the candle-flames to flicker. Giuseppe’s choicest flowers, deftly arranged upon the table by Helen’s skilful hands, contrasted pleasantly with the antique silver and china which had once been the pride of the original owner of the villa; and the menu itself, wisely intrusted by Helen to the old Italian cook, was rife with constant surprises for the American palate. Even the wines were new—if not in name, at least in flavor, for Italian vintages leave behind them their native richness and aroma when transplanted. Never was any vino rosso so delicious as that which Giuseppe made, even though unappreciated by his former master; never such lacrima Christi as that which Armstrong secured in a little wine-shop near the Bargello; never such Asti spumante as that which sparkled in the glasses, eager to share its own bubbling happiness in return for the privilege of touching the fair lips of the beautiful donne Americane.

“We had a friend of yours on board ship, Miss Thayer,” said Emory, speaking to his left-hand neighbor as they seated themselves.

“A friend of mine?” queried Inez. “I can’t think who it could be.”

“Ferdy De Peyster,” replied Emory.

Inez cast a quick glance at Helen. “Really?” she asked. “I thought he was going to spend the summer at Bar Harbor.”

“Changed his mind at the last moment,” he said. “Could not resist the charms of Italy. Do you know, Helen”—Emory addressed himself to his hostess—“De Peyster has developed a mania for art.”

Helen laughed. “No,” she replied, “that is news indeed. It is a side of Ferdy’s nature which even his best friends had not suspected. Is he coming to Florence?”

“Can’t say; but he is evidently planning to leave Rome. We left him at the Vatican, in the Pinacoteca, standing before Raphael’s ‘Transfiguration.’”

“With a Baedeker in his hand?” queried Jack.

“No, studying Cook’s Continental Time-table.”

“What a detective you would make, Mr. Emory,” suggested Mary Sinclair as the laughter subsided.

“I have a better story about De Peyster than that.”

Eustis waited to be urged.

“Give it to us, Dick,” said Jack, helpfully.

“It was at Gibraltar,” began Eustis. “We were in the same party going over the fortifications. De Peyster, you know, enlisted at the time of the Spanish war. Some family friend in the Senate obtained for him a berth as second lieutenant, and his company got as far as Key West. He rather prides himself on his military knowledge, and he confided to me that he had his uniform with him in case he was invited to attend any Court functions. Well, all the way around De Peyster explained everything to us. The Tommy Atkins who was our guide was as serious as a mummy, but confirmed everything Ferdy said. When you reach the gallery at the top, you remember, the guide points out the parade-ground below, and it happened that there was a battalion going through its evolutions.”

“‘Ah!’ said De Peyster, ‘this is very interesting.’” Then he described each movement, giving it the technical military name. At last he turned to our guide and said, patronizingly: ‘I’m a bit disappointed, sergeant, after all I have heard of the precision of the English army. I have often seen American soldiers go through those same movements—just as well as that.’

“The sergeant saluted respectfully and gravely. ‘Quite likely, sir,’ he said, ‘quite likely. These are raw recruits—arrived yesterday, sir!’”

“De Peyster was a sport, though,” added Emory. “When he saw that the joke was on him he handed Tommy a shining sovereign and said: ‘Here, sergeant, have this on me, and drink a health to our two armies—may comparisons never be needed.’”

Helen clapped her hands. “Good for Ferdy! He is all right if people would only leave him alone.”

“Too bad he has so much money!” Eustis was reflective. “If De Peyster had to get out and hustle a bit you would find he had a whole lot of stuff in him.”

“Of course he has,” Uncle Peabody agreed.

“Do you know Mr. De Peyster?” Inez asked, surprised.

“No,” replied Uncle Peabody, “I don’t need to after hearing Mr. Eustis’s summary. On general principles, every one has ‘a whole lot of stuff in him.’ The trouble is that people don’t give it a chance to come out.”

“Your confidence is evidently based upon your general optimism?” Armstrong remembered that Helen had mentioned this as a cardinal characteristic.

“Yes, but proved by a thousand and one experiments. Our present subject, who now becomes No. 1002, is apparently handicapped by the misfortune of inherited leisure. It is rarely that a man of possession reaches his fullest development without the spur of necessity. More frequently we see one extreme or the other—too much possession or too much necessity.”

“That is all very well as a theory, but does it really prove anything as regards De Peyster?” questioned Armstrong. “Personally I think optimism is a dangerous thing. This confidence that everything is coming out right is what makes criminals out of bank cashiers.”

“There is a vast difference between real and false optimism,” replied Uncle Peabody. “I knew a man once who called himself a cheerful pessimist, because every time he planted a seed it grew down instead of up. He came to expect this, so it did not worry him any. He was a real optimist, even though he did not know it.”

“What would be your prescription for a case like Mr. De Peyster’s?” queried Bertha Sinclair.

“A good wife, possessed of ambition, sympathy, and tact,” Uncle Peabody replied, promptly. “This, my dear Miss Sinclair, is your opportunity to assist me in proving my argument. Will you be my accomplice?”

“I? Why, I don’t even know Mr. De Peyster,” Bertha protested. “You must find some one else.”

“Very well,” sighed Mr. Cartwright. “You see how difficult it is for science to assert its laws.”

Helen caught sight of Inez’ cheeks and hastened to her friend’s relief.

“Uncle Peabody, do you know that you are responsible for the first difference of opinion which has arisen between my husband and me?”

“My gracious, no! Can it be possible?”

“It is a fact. I stated to him only yesterday that perfect digestion was the only basis on which health and happiness can possibly rest. You taught me that, but Jack asserts that a touch of indigestion is absolutely essential to genius.”

“How does he know? Has he a touch of indigestion?”

“Not a touch,” laughed Armstrong, “and that proves my statement. I