rty."

And Jo Hertz was again just the dull, gray, commonplace brother of
three well-meaning sisters.

Babe used to say petulantly, "Jo, why don't you ever bring home any of
your men friends? A girl might as well not have any brother, all the
good you do."

Jo, conscience-stricken, did his best to make amends. But a man who
has been petticoat-ridden for years loses the knack, somehow, of
comradeship with men.

One Sunday in May Jo came home from a late-Sunday-afternoon walk to
find company for supper. Carrie often had in one of her schoolteacher
friends, or Babe one of her frivolous intimates, or even Eva a staid
guest of the old-girl type. There was always a Sunday-night supper of
potato salad, and cold meat, and coffee, and perhaps a fresh cake. Jo
rather enjoyed it, being a hospitable soul. But he regarded the guests
with the undazzled eyes of a man to whom they were just so many
petticoats, timid of the night streets and requiring escort home. If
you had suggested to him that some of his sisters' popularity was due
to his own presence, or if you had hinted that the more kittenish of
these visitors were probably making eyes at him, he would have stared
in amazement and unbelief.

This Sunday night it turned out to be one of Carrie's friends.

"Emily," said Carrie, "this is my brother, Jo."

Jo had learned what to expect in Carrie's friends. Drab-looking women
in the late thirties, whose facial lines all slanted downward.

"Happy to meet you," said Jo, and looked down at a different sort
altogether. A most surprisingly different sort, for one of Carrie's
friends. This Emily person was very small, and fluffy, and blue-eyed,
and crinkly looking. The corners of her mouth when she smiled, and her
eyes when she looked up at you, and her hair, which was brown, but had
the miraculous effect, somehow, of looking golden.

Jo shook hands with her. Her hand was incredibly small, and soft, so
that you were afraid of crushing it, until you discovered she had a
firm little grip all her own. It surprised and amused you, that grip,
as does a baby's unexpected clutch on your patronizing forefinger. As
Jo felt it in his own big clasp, the strangest thing happened to him.
Something inside Jo Hertz stopped working for a moment, then lurched
sickeningly, then thumped like mad. It was his heart. He stood
staring down at her, and she up at him, until the others laughed. Then
their hands fell apart, lingeringly.