e _y_ sound squinted
in. Not Neenyun, but nearly Neenyun.

He kissed her.

"Since Dwight isn't here!" she cried, and shook her finger at him. Ina's
conception of hostess-ship was definite: A volley of questions--was his
train on time? He had found the house all right? Of course! Any one
could direct him, she should hope. And he hadn't seen Dwight? She must
telephone him. But then she arrested herself with a sharp, curved fling
of her starched skirts. No! They would surprise him at tea--she stood
taut, lips compressed. Oh, the Plows were coming to tea. How
unfortunate, she thought. How fortunate, she said.

The child Monona made her knees and elbows stiff and danced up and down.
She must, she must participate.

"Aunt Lulu made three pies!" she screamed, and shook her straight hair.

"Gracious sakes," said Ninian. "I brought her a pup, and if I didn't
forget to give it to her."

They adjourned to the porch--Ninian, Ina, Monona. The puppy was
presented, and yawned. The party kept on about "the place." Ina
delightedly exhibited the tomatoes, the two apple trees, the new shed,
the bird bath. Ninian said the un-spellable "m--m," rising inflection,
and the "I see," prolonging the verb as was expected of him. Ina said
that they meant to build a summer-house, only, dear me, when you have a
family--but there, he didn't know anything about that. Ina was using her
eyes, she was arch, she was coquettish, she was flirtatious, and she
believed herself to be merely matronly, sisterly, womanly ...

She screamed. Dwight was at the gate. Now the meeting, exclamation,
banality, guffaw ... good will.

And Lulu, peeping through the blind.

When "tea" had been experienced that evening, it was found that a light
rain was falling and the Deacons and their guests, the Plows, were
constrained to remain in the parlour. The Plows were gentle, faintly
lustrous folk, sketched into life rather lightly, as if they were, say,
looking in from some other level.

"The only thing," said Dwight Herbert, "that reconciles me to rain is
that I'm let off croquet." He rolled his r's, a favourite device of his
to induce humour. He called it "croquette." He had never been more
irrepressible. The advent of his brother was partly accountable, the
need to show himself a fine family man and host in a prosperous little
home--simple and pathetic desire.

"Tell you what we'll do!" said Dwight. "Nin and I'll reminisce a
little."

"Do!" cried Mr. Plow. This