sister?"

"About as much as Z is like M," says I. "She's a live one, Aunt Zenobia
is, if that's what you're gettin' at."

"Thank you," says he. "That is it exactly. And I am glad to hear it. She
used to be, as you put it, rather a live one; but I didn't quite know
how----"

"Kyrle Ballard, is that you?" comes floatin' out from the front door.
"If it is, and you wish to know anything more about Zenobia Hadley, I
should advise you to come to headquarters. Torchy, bring in those
sandwiches--and Mr. Ballard, if he cares to follow."

"There!" says I to Ballard. "You've got a sample. That's Zenobia. Are
you comin' or goin'?"

Foolish question! He's leadin' the way up the steps.

"Zenobia," says he, holdin' out both hands, "I humbly apologize for
following you in this impulsive fashion. I saw you at the theater,
and----"

"If you hadn't done something of the kind," says she, "I shouldn't have
been at all sure it was really you. You've changed so much!"

"I admit it," says he. "One does, you know, in forty years."

"There, there, Kyrle Ballard!" warns Zenobia. "Throw the calendar at me
again, and out you go! I simply won't have it! Besides, I'm hungry.
Torchy is to blame. He suggested hot dog sandwiches. Take a sniff. Do
they appeal to you, or have you cultivated epicurean tastes to such an
extent that----"

"Ah-h-h-h!" says Ballard, bendin' over the paper bag I'm holdin'. "My
favorite delicacy. And if I might be permitted to add a bottle or two of
cold St. Louis----"

"Do you think I keep house without an icebox?" demands Zenobia. "Stop
your silly speeches, and let's get into the dining-room."

Some hustler, Zenobia is, too. Inside of two minutes she's shed her
wraps, passed out plates and glasses, and we're tacklin' a Coney Island
collation.

"I had been wondering if it could be you," says Ballard. "I'd been
watching you through the glasses."

"Yes, I know," says Zenobia. "And we had quite settled it that you were
a strange admirer. I'm frightfully disappointed!"

"Then you didn't know me?" says he. "But just now----"

"Voices don't turn gray or change color," says Zenobia. "Yours sounds
just as it did--well, the last time I heard it."

"That August night, eh?" suggests Mr. Ballard, suspendin' operations on
the sandwich and leanin' eager across the table.

He's a chirky, chipper old scout, with a lot of twinkles left in his
blue eyes. Must have been some gay boy in his day too; for even now he
shows up