e, but you couldn't tell much about her. She had
kissed him one day with a strange warmth of manner, but it had been
quite publicly in the presence of other people. When he left her at her
door now it was after the least sentimental of partings, perhaps a
shake of her hard little hand, or perhaps only a "S'long--see you at the
show-shop!"

It was on one of these nights that she first invited him to dine with
the Montague family. "I tried last night to get you on the telephone,"
she explained, "but they kept giving me someone else, or maybe I called
wrong. Ain't these six-figured Los Angeles telephone numbers the limit?
When you call 208972 or something, it sounds like paging a box-car. I
was going to ask you over. Ma had cooked a lovely mess of corned beef
and cabbage. Anyway, you come eat with us to-morrow night, will you?
She'll have something else cooked up that will stick to the merry old
slats. You can come home with me when we get in from work."

So it was that on the following night he enjoyed a home evening with the
Montagues. Mrs. Montague had indeed cooked up something else, and had
done it well; while Mr. Montague offered at the sideboard a choice
of amateur distillations and brews which he warmly recommended to the
guest. While the guest timidly considered, having had but the slightest
experience with intoxicants, it developed that the confidence placed
in his product by the hospitable old craftsman was not shared by his
daughter.

"Keep off it," she warned, and then to her father, "Say, listen, Pa,
have a heart; that boy's got to work to-morrow." "So be it, my child,"
replied Mr. Montague with a visible stiffening of manner. "Sylvester
Montague is not the man to urge strong drink upon the reluctant or the
over-cautious. I shall drink my aperatif alone."

"Go to it, old Pippin," rejoined his daughter as she vanished to the
kitchen.

"Still, a little dish of liquor at this hour," continued the host
suggestively when they were alone.

"Well"--Merton wished the girl had stayed--"perhaps just a few drops."

"Precisely, my boy, precisely. A mere dram." He poured the mere dram and
his guest drank. It was a colourless, fiery stuff with an elusive taste
of metal. Merton contrived an expression of pleasure under the searching
glance of his host. "Ah, I knew you would relish it. I fancy I could
amaze you if I told you how recently it was made. Now here"--He grasped
another bottle purposely--"is something a ful