ese years--

Eddie did not give them cocktails. True, they supped with mirth, and
with several repetitions by Orville Jones of "Any time Louetta wants to
come sit on my lap I'll tell this sandwich to beat it!" but they
were respectable, as befitted Sunday evening. Babbitt had discreetly
preempted a place beside Louetta on the piano bench. While he talked
about motors, while he listened with a fixed smile to her account of the
film she had seen last Wednesday, while he hoped that she would hurry up
and finish her description of the plot, the beauty of the leading man,
and the luxury of the setting, he studied her. Slim waist girdled
with raw silk, strong brows, ardent eyes, hair parted above a broad
forehead--she meant youth to him and a charm which saddened. He thought
of how valiant a companion she would be on a long motor tour, exploring
mountains, picnicking in a pine grove high above a valley. Her frailness
touched him; he was angry at Eddie Swanson for the incessant family
bickering. All at once he identified Louetta with the fairy girl. He
was startled by the conviction that they had always had a romantic
attraction for each other.

"I suppose you're leading a simply terrible life, now you're a widower,"
she said.

"You bet! I'm a bad little fellow and proud of it. Some evening you slip
Eddie some dope in his coffee and sneak across the road and I'll show
you how to mix a cocktail," he roared.

"Well, now, I might do it! You never can tell!"

"Well, whenever you're ready, you just hang a towel out of the attic
window and I'll jump for the gin!"

Every one giggled at this naughtiness. In a pleased way Eddie Swanson
stated that he would have a physician analyze his coffee daily. The
others were diverted to a discussion of the more agreeable recent
murders, but Babbitt drew Louetta back to personal things:

"That's the prettiest dress I ever saw in my life."

"Do you honestly like it?"

"Like it? Why, say, I'm going to have Kenneth Escott put a piece in the
paper saying that the swellest dressed woman in the U. S. is Mrs. E.
Louetta Swanson."

"Now, you stop teasing me!" But she beamed. "Let's dance a little.
George, you've got to dance with me."

Even as he protested, "Oh, you know what a rotten dancer I am!" he was
lumbering to his feet.

"I'll teach you. I can teach anybody."

Her eyes were moist, her voice was jagged with excitement. He was
convinced that he had won her. He clasped her, conscious