er which covered her finery completely.

"Now's the hour when I regret that I haven't a carriage for you," said
Anthony, as they descended the stairs. He got into his outer coat
reluctantly. "I shall split something around my back before the evening is
over," he prophesied resignedly.

"Never mind. Remember how tight my girdle is. It grows tighter every
minute."

They got out upon the porch and Anthony locked the door. "If I should show
that door-key to any man I know except Carey he would howl," he remarked,
holding up the queer old brass affair before he slipped it into his
pocket. He looked down at Juliet in the gathering June twilight. "Don't
you wish we didn't have to go?"

"Yes, I do," she agreed frankly.

"Let's not!"

"My dear boy! At this hour?"

"We could telephone."

"Shouldn't you feel rather ashamed to, so late?"

"Not a bit. But of course we'll go if you say so."

She laughed, and he joined her boyishly. She hesitated.

"If I see you looking faint in that girdle shall I throw a glass of cold
water over you?"

"Please do. If I hear a sound as of rending cloth shall I divert the
attention of the company?"

"By all means."

They were laughing like two children. Anthony sat down in one of the porch
chairs. He drew a long sigh. "I never hated to leave my dear home so since
I came into it," he said gloomily.

Juliet pulled off her coat. "If you'll do the telephoning I'll stay," she
said.

He jumped to his feet. "Let me loosen that girdle for you. I haven't been
breathing below the fifth rib myself since you put it on, just in
sympathy," he declared.

XVI.--A HOUSE-PARTY--OUTDOORS

"The trouble is," said Anthony Robeson, shifting his position on the step
below Juliet so that he could rest his head against her knee, "the trouble
is we're getting too popular."

Juliet laughed and ran her fingers through his thick locks, gently
tweaking them. The two were alone together in the warm darkness of a July
evening, upon their own little porch.

"It's the first evening we've had to ourselves since the big snowdrift
under the front windows melted. That was about the date Roger Barnes met
Louis Lockwood here the first time. Ye gods--but they've kept each other's
footprints warm since then, haven't they? And now Cathcart is giving
indications of having contracted the fatal malady. Can't Rachel Redding be
incarcerated somewhere until the next moon is past? I notice they all have
worse sympto