roundings they forgot all
about it when they mounted the third flight of stairs and looked in
the door. Not only was Peter's bedroom full of outer garments, and
Miss Felicia's, too, for that matter--but the banisters looked like a
clothes-shop undergoing a spring cleaning, so thickly were the coats
slung over its hand rail. So, too, were the hall, and the hall chairs,
and the gas bracket, and even the hooks where Peter hung his clothes to
be brushed in the morning--every conceivable place, in fact, wherever
an outer wrap of any kind could be suspended, poked, or laid flat. That
Mrs. McGuffey was at her wits' end--only a short walk--was evident from
the way she grabbed my hat and coat and disappeared through a door which
led to her own apartments, returning a moment later out of breath and, I
fancied, a little out of temper.

And that was nothing to the way in which the owners of all these several
habiliments were wedged inside. First came the dome of Peter's bald head
surmounting his merry face, then the top of Miss Felicia's pompadour,
with its tiny diamond spark bobbing about as she laughed and moved
her head in saluting her guests and then mobs and mobs of young people
packed tight, looking for all the world like a matinee crowd leaving
a theatre (that is when you crane your neck to see over their heads),
except that the guests were without their wraps and were talking sixteen
to the dozen, and as merry as they could be.

"They are all here, Major," Peter cried, dragging me inside. It was
wonderful how young and happy he looked. "Miss Corinne, and that loud
Hullaballoo, Garry Minott, we saw prancing around at the supper--you
remember--Holker gave him the ring."

"And Miss MacFarlane?" I asked.

"Ruth! Turn your head, my boy, and take a look at her. Isn't she a
picture? Did you ever see a prettier girl in all your life, and one more
charmingly dressed? Ruth, this is the Major... nothing else... just the
Major. He is perfectly docile, kind and safe, and--"

"--And drives equally well in single or double harness, I suppose,"
laughed the girl, extending her hand and giving me the slightest dip of
her head and bend of her back in recognition, no doubt, of my advancing
years and dignified bearing--in apology, too, perhaps, for her metaphor.

"In SINGLE--not double," rejoined Peter. "He's the sourest, crabbedest
old bachelor in the world--except myself."

Again her laugh bubbled out--a catching, spontaneous kind of l