sher out into the
Conservatory and told him she did not think it advisable to marry him
until she had learned his First Name.

Shortly after Midnight she blew, arriving at headquarters just in time
to participate in a Chafing-Dish Jubilee promoted by only Brother, just
back from the Varsity.

She approached the Porcelain in a chastened mood that Sabbath morning.
She was thinking of the Night Before and of playing cards for Money.
She remembered the glare of Light for overhead and the tense, eager
Faces peering above the Paste-Boards.

Then she recalled, with a sharp catch of the Breath and a little tug of
Pain at the Heart, that she had balled herself up at one Stage and got
dummied out of a Grand Slam.

"It would have meant a long pair of the Silk Kind," thought she, as she
sighed deeply and turned the cold Faucet.

After Breakfast, she took a long Walk up the Avenue as a Bracer.

After which to the Kirk, for she taught a class of Little Girls in the
Sunday School, and she had to fake up an Explanation of how Joshua made
the Sun stand still, thereby putting herself in the Scratch Division
of Explainers, believe us.

She listened to a dainty Boston Sermon, trimmed with Ruching, singing
lustily before and after.

Then back home with the solemn Parade to sit among the condemned
waiting for that superlative Gorge known as the Sunday Dinner.

While she was waiting, a male Friend dropped in. His costume was a
compromise between an English Actor and a hired Mourner.

On Week Days he sat at a Desk dictating Letters and saying that the
Matter had been referred to the proper Department.

He looked at Loretta, so calm and cool and collected in her pious
Raiment, and the Smile that he summoned was benevolent and almost
patronizing.

"I was wondering," said he. "I was wondering if a Girl like you ever
gets tired of sitting around and doing nothing."

Loretta did not cackle. She had read in a Book by a Yale Professor
that Woman is not supposed to possess the Sense of Humor.

MORAL: The Settlement Campaign is not getting to the real Workers.

THE NEW FABLE OF THE INTERMITTENT FUSSER

Once a grammar-school Rabbit, struggling from long Trousers toward his
first brier-wood Pipe, had Growing Pains which he diagnosed as the
pangs of True Love.

The Target was a dry-seasoned Fannie old enough to be his Godmother.
She was a Post-Graduate who was keeping herself on Earth by running
to the Drug-Store every few minu