vate ward. But as soon as I gets next to the Georgia accent I
suspects that it ain't any case of squirrels in the attic; but just a
sample of sweet Southern gush.

Next I gets a peek through the draperies at some straw-colored hair
with a shell-pink ear peepin' from underneath, and I know that whatever
else is wrong don't matter; for over there on the windowseat,
surrounded by half a dozen young gents, is somebody very particular and
special. Followin' this I does a hasty piece of scout work and draws a
deep breath. No Aunty looms on the horizon--not yet, anyway.

With the arrival of the new delegates the admirin' semicircle has to
break up, and the three of us are towed to the bay window by Vivacious
Vivian.

"Princess," says she, makin' a low duck, "three other Knights who would
do homage. Allow me first to present Mr. Reginald St. Claire Smith.
Here Reggy. Also Mr. Theodore Braden. And next Mr.--Mr.--er----"

She's got to me. I expect her first guess was that I'd been dragged in
by one of the other two; but as neither of 'em makes any sign she turns
them black, dark-ringed lamps inquirin' on me and asks, "Oh, I'm sure I
beg pardon, but--but you are----"

Now who the blazes was I, anyway? It all depended on how well posted
she was, whether I should admit I was Torchy the Banished, or invent an
alias on the spot.

"Why," says I, draggin' it out to gain time, "you see I'm a--that is,
I'm a--a----"

"Oh, hello!" breaks in Vee, jumpin' up and holdin' out both hands just
in the nick of time. "Why, of course, Cousin Eulalia! This is a
friend of mine, an old friend."

"Really!" says Cousin Eulalia. "And I may call him----"

"Claude," I puts in, winkin' at Vee. "Call me just Claude."

"Perfectly lovely!" gushes Eulalia. "An unknown knight. 'Deed and you
shall be called Claude--Sir Claude of the Golden Crest. Gentlemen, I
present him to you."

We looks at each other sort of sheepish, and most of us grins. All but
one, in fact. The blond string bean over in the corner, with the
buttermilk blue eyes and the white eyebrows, he don't seem amused. For
it's Sappy Westlake, the one I run on a siding once at a dance. Think
of keepin' a peeve on ice all that time!

It's quite a likely lookin' assortment on the whole, though, all
costumed elegant and showin' signs of bein' fairly well parlor broke.

"What's the occasion?" says I on the side to Miss Vee. "Reunion of
somebody's Sunday school class?"