unattached. Instead, they followed the others
down to the depot and back, and after another half-hour _detour_
through the quiet, shady street, they found Bob and Molly waiting for
them at the corner.

"Good night, Fannie," said Molly. "I'm going in. To-morrow's ironing
day. Good night, Mr. Wallingford."

"Good night," returned Miss Fannie, as a matter of course, and again
Wallingford harked back. He was to take Miss Fannie home. Quite
naturally. Why not?

It was a long walk, but by no means too long, and when they had
arrived at the big, fret-sawed house of Jonas Bubble, J. Rufus was
sorry. He lingered a moment at the gate, but only a moment, for a
woman's shrill voice called:

"Is that you, Fannie? You come right in here and go to bed! Who's that
with you?"

"You'd better go right away, please," pleaded Fannie in a flutter.
"I'm not allowed to be with strangers."

This would have been the cue for a less adroit and diplomatic caller
to hurry silently back up the street, and, as a matter of fact, this
entirely conventional course was all that Mrs. Bubble had looked for.
She was accordingly shocked when the gate opened, and in place of
Fannie coming alone, J. Rufus, in spite of the girl's protest, walked
deliberately up to the porch.

"Is Mr. Bubble at home?" he asked with great dignity.

Mrs. Bubble gasped.

"I reckon he is," she admitted.

"I'd like to see him, if possible."

There was another moment of silence, in which Mrs. Bubble strove to
readjust herself.

"I'll call him," she said, and went in.

Mr. Jonas Bubble, revealed in the light of the open door, proved to
be a pursy man of about fifty-five, full of importance from his
square-toed shoes to his gray sideburns; he exuded importance from
every vest button upon the bulge of his rotundity, and importance
glistened from the very top of his bald head.

"I am J. Rufus Wallingford," said that broad-chested young gentleman,
whose impressiveness was at least equal to Mr. Bubble's importance,
and he produced a neatly-engraved card to prove the genuineness of his
name. "I was introduced to your daughter at the hotel, and I came down
to consult with you upon a little matter of business."

"I usually transact business at my office," said Mr. Bubble pompously;
"nevertheless, you may come inside."

He led the way into a queer combination of parlor, library,
sitting-room and study, where he lit a big, hanging gasolene lamp,
opened his old swinging top