ath-houses, radiant from
their invigorating exercise, and looking for new worlds to conquer.
Cosden was first, and he seated himself on the bench beside Edith.

"Am I forgiven?" he asked in a low tone, but with a smile which
expressed confidence in the answer.

"I never talk shop outside of business hours," was the chilling
response, as she drew herself slightly away from him and looked straight
ahead.

Merry was not far behind, and her appearance prevented Edith's hauteur
from becoming too apparent.

"Mr. Huntington and I are going to have another race to-morrow morning,"
she announced. "I'm sure he let me beat him this time just to humiliate
me the more when he shows what he can really do."

"I'd back you against the field if I could find any takers," Cosden
insisted. "That shows what I think of his chances."

"It's great fun, anyway. Isn't this a fine old world, Momsie?" she cried
impulsively, throwing her arms around her mother's neck and kissing her.

"'Here comes the bride,'" chanted Cosden as Huntington finally walked
toward them with his dignified stride. "If I took as much time to prink
as you do I believe I could fuss myself up to look like something."

"You'd need a file!" Edith ejaculated spitefully.

"I beg your pardon?" Cosden interrogated, but no explanation was
vouchsafed.

"This looks to me like a council of war," Huntington remarked.

"Call it rather a demobilization," Thatcher corrected. "I have made
myself everlastingly unpopular by deciding to return to New York on
Monday. Marian insists on leaving when I do, and the Stevenses are
equally considerate of my pleasure. So I've spoiled everything."

"I have only been waiting for some one stronger than I to determine my
own departure, so I include myself among the refugees. And Hamlen will
go with me, won't you, my friend?"

Hamlen held up his hand deprecatingly. "I must complete my sentence of
exile," he said with finality.

"Have you heard anything from New York?" Cosden inquired. "I left orders
not to cable."

"The market is bad, and liable to become worse."

"Then my vacation is over, too. How about the trolley project?"

"Another postponement. I'll give you the details later."

"Mr. Hamlen has invited us to have tea with him to-morrow afternoon as a
farewell celebration, and I have accepted for all."

"Not a farewell, Mrs. Thatcher," Huntington corrected, looking across at
Hamlen. "There are some souls to whom we never say far