in
summoning him back to present consciousness just long enough to extract
an answer from him. Therefore she tapped the table sharply with the
corner of the note.

"Listen, father!" she urged him, as she laid her other hand across the
open paper. "What shall I say?"

"Say that they are impossible young asses, a year and a half behind the
times," her father growled, the while he shifted his paper slightly, to
free its final column from her covering fingers.

A total stranger to the doctor might have distrusted either his own
ears, or else the doctor's sanity. Olive knew her father, though; she
felt no forebodings, albeit her eyes danced at the unexpected nature of
his response.

"I am afraid that Mrs. Dennison might not take it nicely, if I did,"
she said.

The doctor's growl rumbled forth once more.

"Better know what one is talking about, then. That theory was all
exploded, months ago." Then some echo of his daughter's words seemed at
last to be penetrating his brain, and he lowered his paper with a sigh.
"What has Mrs. Dennison to do with a thing like this, Olive?" he
queried blankly. "Dennison is only history, not biological."

Olive laughed outright.

"And Mrs. Dennison is only socio-hospitable," she responded. "Father,
you really are terrible, this morning."

The doctor smiled benevolently at her arraignment. Then, hurriedly
gathering himself together, he stuck out an appealing cup for some more
coffee.

Olive shook her head.

"No; not one other drop. You have had five, already. If you don't stop
at that, I'll tell the cook to put you on to postum. Now please do
listen to me. I was asking you whether we'd best go to this dinner of
Mrs. Dennison's."

"When?" the doctor inquired.

Olive's lips twitched at the corners.

"About a half an hour ago," she answered. "No, wait." Swiftly she
seized and snatched away the paper, just as her father was preparing to
bury himself anew. "The dinner is next Thursday, to meet Mr. Brenton."

"Who is Mr. Brenton?" her father asked, with bland interest.

"The new rector. You heard him, two weeks ago, you know." This time,
Olive's accent held a slight reproach. Purely as a matter of heredity,
Doctor Keltridge was senior warden of Saint Peter's; but, as a general
rule, he totally forgot to go to church.

"Oh, yes, yes. The new chap with the voice." The doctor roused himself
suddenly. "It is a wonderful voice, Olive; his whole respiratory system
must be perfect, a