xquisite.

He walked beside her, content to let Bobbie monopolize the conversation,
which was unusual, for Justin liked to be the center of things. He had
always been the center of things, and he was not diffident, as a rule,
in his approaches toward friendship.

"The funny thing about this place," Bobbie was saying, "is that you have
to pass the kitchen door to get to the front. When I was a little boy
Delia used to roll out cookies on that table by the window, and I'd sit
on the step and wait for them."

"Delia's a dear," said Bettina. "I fell in love with her the minute I
came. And I fell in love with Peter."

Peter, hearing his name, jumped down from the stone wall, where he had
been watching the robins, and again joined them.

"Peter and I are old friends," said Bobbie, and stopped to pet him.

"So you are going to stay with Diana?" Justin asked.

Bettina nodded. "Yes. Isn't she wonderful?"

"Wonderful. It's a pity we aren't a monarchy, so that Diana could rule
as a queen. She's that kind of woman. A man instinctively looks up to
her."

"That's what Anthony says."

Marveling somewhat at her familiar use of the name of the distinguished
surgeon, Justin replied, "Oh, of course, Anthony thinks she's perfect.
He'll marry her some day."

Bettina's startled glance questioned him. "What makes you say that? He
won't, of course, but what makes you say it?"

"Because it would be such a perfect arrangement. They are so well
matched."

"It wouldn't be perfect at all. People who are alike never ought to
marry. And, anyhow, they've never thought of such a thing."

"How do you know?"

"Because they are not in love. Any one can see that who sees them
together. They are just good friends--and friendship is a very different
thing from love."

Justin stared at her in amazement for a moment, then he threw back his
head and laughed. "Oh, wise young woman," he said, "talk to me some more
of love----"

"Who's talking of love?" asked Bobbie, coming up.

"Bobbie doesn't think of anything else," said Justin; "only he's never
sure of its object. Last month it was Sara, and now it is Doris--next
week it will be----"

"Next week," said Bobbie, firmly, "it will be Doris,--and the next and
the next--and always----"

They were on the porch now--the wide porch with its rugs and low wicker
chairs, its gay striped awning and its bowls of white and purple lilacs.

Sophie was waiting for them, and Justin greeted her with al