rtion as it became like the East; and that
they, though Westerners, were as superior to workmen with hard hands as
was Brooklyn Heights itself.

Claire tried to wriggle out from under the thought of Milt while, with
the Gilsons as the perfect audience, she improvised on the theme of
wandering. With certain unintended exaggerations, and certain not quite
accurate groupings of events, she described the farmers and cowpunchers,
the incredible hotels and garages. Indeed they had become incredible to
her own self. Obviously this silken girl couldn't possibly take
seriously a Dlorus Kloh--or a young garage man who said "ain't."

Eva Gilson had been in Brooklyn within the month, and in a passion of
remembrance of home, Claire cried, "Oh, do tell me about everybody."

"I had such a good time with Amy Dorrance," said Mrs. Gilson. "Of course
Amy is a little dull, but she's such an awfully good sort and---- We did
have the jolliest party one afternoon. We went to lunch at the Ritz,
and a matinee, and we saw such an interesting man--Gene is frightfully
jealous when I rave about him--I'm sure he was a violinist--simply an
exquisite thing he was--I wanted to kiss him. Gene will now say, 'Why
didn't you?'"

And Gene said, "Well, why _didn't_ you?" and Claire laughed, and her
toes felt warm and pink and good, and she was perfectly happy, and she
murmured, "It would be good to hear a decent violinist again. Oh! What
had George Worlicht been doing, when you were home?"

"Don't you think Georgie is wonderful?" fluttered Mrs. Gilson. "He makes
me rue my thirty-six sad years. I think I'll adopt him. You know, he
almost won the tennis cup at Long Branch."

Georgie had a little mustache and an income, just enough income to
support the little mustache, and he sang inoffensively, and was always
winning tennis cups--almost--and he always said, at least once at every
party, "The basis of _savoir faire_ is knowing how to be rude to the
right people." Fire-enamored and gliding into a perfumed haze of
exquisite drowsiness, Claire saw Georgie as heroic and wise. But the
firelight got into her eyes, and her lids wouldn't stay open, and in her
ears was a soft humming as of a million bees in a distant meadow
golden-spangled--and Gene was helping her upstairs; sleepiness submerged
her like bathing in sweet waters; she fumbled at buttons and hooks and
stays, let things lie where they fell--and of all that luxury nothing
was more pleasant than the kn