how can you? You are being the most
hateful person that ever lived. Why if I really cared for anyone--if
I ever really cared--" and then she began to cry most steadily and
whole-heartedly into her napkin and Oliver in spite of all the generous
plaudits he was receiving from various parts of his mind for having
carried delicate business successfully to a most dramatic conclusion,
wondered what in the name of Hymen his cue was now. Some remnants of
diplomacy however kept him from doing anything particularly obtrusive
and, after he had received an official explanation of nervous headache
with official detachment, the end of tea found them being quite cheerful
together. Neither alluded directly to what both thought about most but
in spite of that each seemed inwardly convinced of being completely
if cryptically understood by the other and when the noise of the first
returning motor brought a friendly plotter's "You talk to them--they
mustn't see me this way," from Elinor and a casual remark from Oliver
that he felt sure he would have to run into town for dinner--family
had forwarded a letter from an editor this morning--so if she wanted
anything done--they seemed to comprehend each other very thoroughly.

He babbled with the returning jazzers for a quarter of an hour or so,
tactfully circumvented Peter into offering him the loan of a car since
he had to go into New York, and intimated that he would drop back and in
at the Rackstraws' dance as soon as possible, after many apologies for
daring to leave at all. Then he went slowly upstairs, humming loudly as
he did so. Elinor met him outside his door.

"Ollie--as long as you're going in--I wonder if you'd mind--" Her tone
was elaborately careless but her eyes were dancing as she gave him a
letter, firmly addressed but unstamped.

"No, glad to--" And then he grinned. "You'll be at the Rackstraws'."

"Yes, Ollie."

"Well--we'll be back by ten thirty or try to. Maybe earlier," he said
at her back and she turned and smiled once at him. Then he went into his
room.

"Mr. Theodore Billett," said the address on the letter, "252A Madison
Ave., N. Y. C.," and down in the lower corner, "Kindness of Mr. Oliver
Crowe."

He thought he might very well ask for the latter phrase on Ted's and
Elinor's wedding invitations. He passed a hand over his forehead--that
had been harder than walking a tight-rope with your head in a sack--but
the chasm had been crossed and nothing was left now bu