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wish you'd let me tell you about that affair of mine, that single romance of my lonely life!"
"Get out!"
Hunter lighted his pipe again and then set his fingers darting over the strings in a rag-time melody, his foot beating time on the floor. Miles hummed the words under his breath a minute. Then he asked, suddenly,—
"Who's here this spring, Hunter?"
"Not many yet; our most noted citizens don't come along until hot weather drives them from town. They don't know what they miss. At present there are the Ruggleses, the Hopkinses, the Tafts"
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"Who are they?"
"Horace Taft, water-color painter, and his wife."
"Old?"
