er, and as he busied
himself with the turns of the road, she presently began to speak of
other things. But when they had driven into the driveway of the new
Parker house, and had stopped at the side door, he jumped from the car,
and came around it to help her out.

She felt him lightly detain her, and looked up at him curiously.

"Well, what's the matter--afraid of me?"

"No-o." Martie was a little confused. "But--but hadn't I better go in?"

"Well--what do I get out of it?" he asked, in the old teasing voice of
the boy who had liked to play "Post-office" and "Clap-in-and-clap-out"
years ago.

But they were not children now, and there was reproach in the glance
Martie gave him as she ran up the steps.

Rose, in blue satin, fluttered to meet her and she was conveyed
upstairs on a sort of cloud of laughter and affection. Everywhere were
lights and pretty rooms; wraps were flung darkly across the Madeira
embroidery and filet-work of Rose's bed.

"Other people, Rose?"

"Just the Ellises, Martie, and the Youngers--you don't know them. And a
city man to balance Florence, and Cliff." Rose, hovering over the
dressing-table exclaimed ecstatically over Martie's hair. "You look
lovely--you want your scarf? No, you won't need it--but it's so
pretty--"

She laid an arm about Martie's waist as they went downstairs.

"You've heard that we've had trouble with the girls?" Rose said, in a
confidential whisper. "Yes. Ida and May--after all Rodney had done for
them, too! He did EVERYTHING. It was over a piece of property that
their grandfather had left their father--I don't know just what the
trouble was! But you won't mention them to Rod--?"

Everything was perfection, of course. There were cocktails, served in
the big drawing room, with its one big rug, and its Potocka and le Brun
looking down from the tinted walls. Martie sat between Rodney and the
strange man, who was unresponsive.

Rodney, warmed by a delicious dinner, became emotional.

"That was a precious friendship of ours, to me, Martie," he said. "Just
our boy-and-girl days, but they were happy days! I remember waking up
in the mornings and saying to myself, 'I'll see Martie to-day!' Yes,"
said Rodney, putting down his glass, his eyes watering, "that's a
precious memory to me--very."

"Is Rodney making love to you, Martie?" Rose called gaily, "he does
that to every one--he's perfectly terrible!"

"How many children has Sally now?" Florence Frost, sickly, emaci