"I've had a long day," he reported with satisfaction. "Mos' propitious day, too. Mos'."
Upon whom had he successfully imposed to-day? She wondered. What unusual article had he obtained on credit? Or, by chance, had he been engaged in one of his rare transactions of a legitimate sort?
"Been sitting here alone, Joan?" he inquired.
"No. Ket's been up here. I just sent him downstairs."
"Proper plaish for 'im. Precishly proper plaish, Joan," he commended her. "You're good girl, m'dear."
He laid his stick and hat in the closet with his topcoat, and he stepped out, yawning, yet not feeling ready to retire.
"You sleepy?" he asked her.
"No."
"Nor I. When y'are, inform me," he bid courteously, going to the radio and twirling the dials.
He was rewarded immediately by the raucous strains of jazz and next by scrapings of a speech, at which he swore in whispers. Joan knew that he was searching for something sentimental, such as "The Swanee River," or "Annie Laurie," and she watched him while he tuned, searching the three thousand miles of the continent for what he wanted until at last he located in Los Angeles, where it was not yet eleven o'clock, a woman singing—"Home, Sweet Home."
It pleased him greatly and he stood before the cabinet, swaying with satisfaction in time to the song.
"Beauchival song," he whispered to Joan and put out his hand to draw her closer. "Beauchival, isn't it? Sound sentiment, m'dear; and absholutely fundamental. Lisshen, Joan."
She gave him her hand, and he clung to her while he swayed to the second verse; she watched him and wondered, as often at such interludes, what memories as-
