“What’s that in your hand?” she answered, smiling.

Jadwin stared at the cup and saucer he held, whimsically. “Well, well,” he exclaimed, “I must be flustered. Corthell,” he declared between swallows, “take my advice. Buy May wheat. It’ll beat art all hollow.”

“Oh, dear, no,” returned the artist. “I should lose my senses if I won, and my money if I didn’t.”

“That’s so. Keep out of it. It’s a rich man’s game. And at that, there’s no fun in it unless you risk more than you can afford to lose. Well, let’s not talk shop. You’re an artist, Mr. Corthell. What do you think of our house?”

Later on when they had said goodbye to Corthell, and when Jadwin was making the rounds of the library, art gallery, and drawing-rooms⁠—a nightly task which he never would entrust to the servants⁠—turning down the lights and testing the window fastenings, his wife said:

“And now you are out of it⁠—for good.”