wn to the Maison Felice, pick out a two-hundred-dollar evenin' gown,
and have it sent up with a fitter. Vee says Myra simply wouldn't open
the box for half an hour; but then she softened up, and after she'd been
buckled into this pink creation with the rosebud shoulder straps she
consents to take one squint at the glass. Then it develops that Myra is
still human. From that to allowin' a hairdresser to be called in was
only a step, which explains the whole miracle of how Myra blossomed out.

And say, for a late bloomin' it was a wonder. Honest, when I gets my
first glimpse of her standin' under the hall light with Hilda holdin' her
opera wrap, I lets out a gurgle. Had I wandered into the wrong
apartment? Was I disturbin' some leadin' lady just goin' on for the
first act? No, there was Cousin Myra's thin nose and pointed chin. But,
with her hair loosened up and her cheeks tinted a bit from excitement,
she looks like a different party. Almost stunnin', you know.

Vee nudges me to quit the gawp act.

"Gosh!" I whispers. "Who'd have thought it?"

"S-s-s-sh!" says Vee. "We don't want her to suspect a thing."

I don't know whether she did or not, but when we're towed into the
dinin'-room she spots the table decorations right off, and whirls on me.

"Here's plotting, young man," says she. "But if you will tell me how you
discovered I was so fond of Louis Philippe roses I'll forgive you."

"Looks like I was a good guesser, don't it?" says I.

"You're good at something, anyway," says Cousin Myra; "but--but why five
places?"

She's noticed the extra plate and is glancin' around inquirin'.

"Oh!" says I, offhand, "odd numbers for luck, so I took a chance on
askin' in an old friend of yours. He ought to be in the cloak-room by
now. I'll go fetch him."

You should have seen the look on her face, too, when I shows up with
Professor Hinckley. He's a perfectly good highbrow, understand--pointed
face whiskers, shaggy forelock, wide black ribbon on his eyeglasses, and
all--sort of a mild-eyed, modest appearin' gent, but kind of
distinguished-lookin', at that. And you'd never guess how nervous he
really was.

"Well, Myra?"' says he, beamin' friendly through his glasses.

"Lester!" she gasps.

They didn't exactly go to a clinch, but they shook hands so long the
waiter had to slide the caviar canape between 'em, and even after we got
'em to sit down they couldn't seem to break off gazin' at each other. As
a f