spitality, but she realized at
once that this guest brought an unusual and compelling interest. She was
conscious, too, in a vague way, of the portent of some permanent change
pending. What she saw clearly was a very pretty girl with a soft voice
and a definite, forceful personality.

"Miss Swaim, you must be tired after your long journey," Laura began,
courteously.

"Please don't call me that. I am so far from home I'll be 'Miss Swaimed'
enough, anyhow."

The appeal in the blue eyes broke down all reserve.

"Then I'll call you 'Jerry,' as I did when you were a little girl and I
was beginning to think about getting grown up," Laura exclaimed.

"And since you are far from home, we hope you may find a home welcome in
our house, and that you will come at once and be our guest
indefinitely," York added, with his winning smile that ought to have
sent him to Congress years ago.

Something about Jerry Swaim had caught Laura Macpherson in a moment. She
hoped that York had the same feeling. But York was one of the
impenetrable kind when he chose. And he certainly chose that evening to
prove his impenetrability.

"You are very kind," Jerry said, looking at York with earnest eyes, void
of all coquettishness. Then, turning to York's sister, she went on:

"I am not tired now. But the last part of my journey was frightful. The
afternoon was hot, and the wind blew terrifically. They had to close the
windows to keep out the dust. Then we were delayed in what they told me
was called a 'blowout.'" Her eyes were sparkling now, but her emphasis
on the term seemed to cut against York Macpherson's senses like burning
sand-filled wind as he sat studying her face.

"All the 'blowouts' I ever heard of were in the tires of our limousine
car," she continued, musingly. "And my cousin, Gene Wellington, of
Philadelphia, didn't know what to do about them at all. He is an artist,
and artists never do take to practical things. Gene was more helpless
when anything went wrong with the car than ever I was, and awfully
afraid of taking a risk or anything."

And that, it seemed to the Macphersons, must have been helpless indeed.
For as she sat there at ease in the shadowy dimness of the summer
evening, York Macpherson thought of Carlyle's phrasing, "Her feet to
fall on softness; her eyes to light on splendor," a creature fitted only
to adorn the upholstered places of life.

"Did you ever see that dreadful 'blowout' thing?" Jerry asked, coming