world."

It was clearly the moment for Persis to hang up the receiver.
Regrettable as it is to record, she listened with a seeming accession
of interest for Thomas' reply. But his only answer was a discreet
silence.

"When you talk of being busy," Mrs. Gibson continued witheringly, "I
know what's in your mind. You mean you won't come to this house while
Josephine is here."

Still silence on the part of Thomas.

"Thomas Hardin," his sister burst out, "why don't you say something? I
can stand a man that takes the roof off when he's mad lots better than
the kind that shut up like clams. Are you coming to supper this week
or not?"

"No, Nellie, I guess not."

"You mean you're not coming near the house while Josephine stays? Be a
man. Speak out plain."

"Nellie," said the goaded Thomas, acting on her counsel, "I haven't got
a thing against any friend of yours, but I'm tired of your
match-making."

"Match-making!" Mrs. Gibson repeated, like most who adopt that most
thankless of the professions ready on the instant to repudiate it.
"Me!"

"Yes, Nellie, I'm not a suspicious man, but a child in arms could see
through your little game. I dare say you mean it kindly, but when a
man's not looking for a wife, it's embarrassing to have first one woman
and then another thrown at his head."

"I suppose," commented Mrs. Gibson acridly, "you'd rather end up your
days a pitiable old bachelor, mooning over the woman who played with
you for a dozen years and threw you down at last."

"If she threw me down, 'twas because I deserved it."

"Deserve nothing. You haven't the sense to go in when it rains, Thomas
Hardin, and a week-old kitten would beat you for gumption. But for all
that, you're a long sight more of a catch than most men."

This impassioned tribute apparently left Thomas dumb. Mrs. Gibson
followed up her advantage.

"I suppose you'd rather set in meeting and look at the back of Persis
Dale's bonnet than to have a nice wife of your own in the pew beside
you."

"Well, since you ask me, Nellie, I would."

"She's made you a laughing-stock. She don't care any more for you--"

"Of course she don't. Why should she? A woman like her."

"Then I wash my hands of you." Mrs. Gibson's voice suggested tears.

"Thank you, Nellie," Thomas returned gratefully, and his sister's
receiver slammed into the hook. Thomas followed suit, and last of all,
Persis Dale, after assuring herself that she was not likely t