n the sofa.

"Somepin new--" interjected the Captain. "Thought I'd kind o' bloom out;
sort o' to let folks know that the old man had a little kick in him
yet--eh? And now, girls--listen; let's all go out to the Country Club
for dinner to-night, and I'll put on my new suit and you kind of rig up
in your best, and we'll make what George calls a killing--what say?" He
put his hands in his pockets and looked critically at his new clothes.
The flight of Ruth had quieted Emma, but Martha came swooping down on
him with "Now, father--look here--about that Country Club party--"

The Captain shot a swift glance at Martha, and saw Emma looking at him
from the kitchen door.

"What party?" he exclaimed. "Can't I ask my girls out for a little
innocent dinner without its being called a party--eh? Now, you girls get
your things on and come on. As for me, the limousine will be at the door
at eight!"

He disappeared up the stairs and in the Morton household, two young
women, woeful and heavy hearted, went about their toilets, while in the
Brotherton establishment, one large fat man in suspenders felt the rush
of sudden tears on his shirt front and marveled at the ways of the sex.
When the Mortons were in the midst of their moist and lugubrious task,
the thin, cracked little voice of the Captain called out:

"Girls--before you go, don't forget to put that cold beef on and stew it
to-night for hash in the morning--eh?"

It was a beautiful party that Captain Morton gave at the Country Club
house that evening. And at the end of a most gorgeously elaborate
dinner, wherein were dishes whose very names the Captain did not know,
he rose among his guests seated at the U-shaped table in the big dining
room with the heavy brown beams in the ceiling, a little old man by his
big chair, which stood beside a chair unoccupied.

"Friends," he said, "when a man gets on in his seventies, at that
uncertain time, when he does not know whether to be ashamed of his years
or proud of his age," he smiled at Daniel Sands, who clicked his
false-teeth in appreciation of the phrase, "it would seem that thoughts
of what the poet calls 'the livelier iris' on the 'burnished dove' would
not inconvenience him to any great extent--eh? At seventy-five a young
fellow's fancy ought to be pretty well done lightly turning to thoughts
of love--what say? But by cracky--they don't."

He paused. The Morton girls in shame looked at their plates. "So, I just
thought I'd hav