And you should see the cute
schemes Vee puts over--settin' a framed photo so it throws the light in
the old girl's eyes, or shiftin' our chairs so she has to stretch her
neck to keep track of us.

Makes an evenin' call quite an excitin' game; and when we work in a few
minutes of hand-holdin', or I get away with a hasty clinch, why, that
scores for our side. So, for a personally conducted affair, it ain't
so poor. I'm missin' no dates, I notice. And tuck this away; if it
was a case of Vee and a whole squad of aunts, or an uninterrupted
two-some with one of these nobody-home dolls, I'd pick Vee and the
gallery. Uh-huh! I'm just that good to myself.

All was goin' along smooth and merry, too, until one Wednesday night I
discovers another lid ahead of mine on the hall table. It's a glossy
silk tile, with a pair of gray castor gloves folded neat alongside.
Seein' which I reaches past Helma for the silver card-tray.

"Huh!" says I under my breath. "Now, who the giddy gallowampuses is
Clyde Creighton?"

"Vair nice gentlemans, Meester Creeton," whispers Helma.

"I know," says I; "you're judgin' by the hat."

She springs that silly grin of hers, as usual. No matter what I say,
it gets open-faced motions out of Helma. But I really wasn't feelin'
so humorous. Whoever he was, this Creighton guy had come the wrong
evenin'. Course, I judged it must be Vee he's callin' on, and I wasn't
strong for a three-handed session just then. There was something
special I wanted to talk over with Vee this particular evenin', and I
couldn't see why--

But, my first glimpse of Clyde soothes me down a lot. He has curly
gray hair, also a mustache that's well frosted up. He's a tall, slim
built party, with a wide black ribbon to tie him to his eyeglasses.
Seems to be entertainin' Auntie.

"Ah!" says he, inspectin' me casual over the shell rims. "Mr.
Ballard?" And, with a skimpy little nod, he turns back to Auntie and
goes on where he broke off, leavin' me to shake hands with myself if I
wanted to.

I expect it served me right, cuttin' in abrupt on such a highbrow
conversation as that. Something about the pre-Raphael tendencies of
the Barbizon school, I think.

Culture! Say, if I'm any judge, Claude was battin' about 400. It
fairly dripped from him. Talk about broad o's--he spilled 'em easy and
natural, a font to a galley; and he couldn't any more miss the final g
than a telephone girl would overlook rollin' her r's.