use hastily. The alarm clock
indicated fifteen minutes of the hour and no time was to be lost. But
which of his four ties should he wear? His blue one was wrinkled because
it had lain beneath the bed for over a week before he had resurrected
it. The tan-and-black striped one given him by his uncle was in equally
bad condition. And Louise had said she hated green. After all, his
brilliant crimson four-in-hand was the nicest. It contrasted with his
dark suit the best, anyway.

He presented himself a sheepishly smiling little figure with neatly
parted hair, for his mother's inspection. She looked up with a smile.

"If it isn't our little John! And so clean that I scarcely know him.
Come here and let me look at your ears."

They were immaculate! Mrs. Fletcher exchanged a glance of mock surprise
with her husband. "It's the first time that's happened since he was old
enough to wash himself."

John, junior, seized his hat and slammed the door as he sprang down the
front steps. Why did grown-ups always carry on so? There was nothing
unusual in washing one's ears, was there?

He stopped across the street from the building to watch for a moment.
The Martin parlor on the second floor was ablaze with light.
Occasionally an adult moved now and then within range of the windows as
she shifted chairs to and fro. A boy from Southern Avenue, with whom he
had a speaking acquaintance, walked up and into the entrance with an air
of unnatural gravity. John could see him give his tie a twitch as he
rang the front bell. A brougham drove up and a little girl encased in
innumerable fluffy wraps was escorted up the steps by her mother. More
girls followed from time to time. Some skipped merrily up to the door;
others sauntered more slowly, tittering excitedly as they went along.
John decided that it was time to go in.

Up the heavily carpeted stairway, with its ornately panelled wainscoting
and brown wallpaper, a half turn to the right, and the goal of the
evening lay before him. The stout woman whom he had seen silhouetted in
the window greeted him with a gracious smile.

"So this is the John Fletcher of whom Louise is always talking!"

A maid, subsidized for the evening, took his hat and coat away to some
mysterious recess. Mrs. Martin led him into the parlor, lighted to a
soft glow by deftly shaded electric bulbs.

"Now let me introduce you," she said. "This is Martha Gill." He bowed
awkwardly to the lady of the carriage. "And this,