a habit.
When there are people around who talk about things it's natural to get
into the way of talking. Isn't that so?"

"I suspect it is," Phil answered. "While my critics haven't exactly said
that I talk too much, they agree that I talk at the wrong time. Let's
all be seated."

She dropped down on the grass, and smoothed her skirt. It was the best
everyday dress she had ever owned and she meant to be careful of it. Her
patent leather oxford ties were the nicest she had ever had, and she was
not without her pride in their brightness. Fred seated himself near her.
His clothes were his Sunday best, and none too good at that; he was
painfully conscious of the contrast of their raiment.

"Your brother Charlie talks a good deal. I saw him the other day," said
Phil.

"Yes; Charlie talks mighty well. He can talk to anybody. Where did you
meet him?"

"In town, at father's office."

"Oh; he was there, was he?"

It was plain that Fred was surprised that there should be any
intercourse between the Kirkwoods and his brother.

"He called to see father; but he didn't see him," explained Phil, as
though reading his thoughts and willing to satisfy his curiosity.

"Charlie's getting up a new trolley line. He wanted me to go in with
him."

"Gave you a chance to escape from your farm? I should think you would be
tempted."

"I didn't feel the temptation particularly," answered Fred; "but it was
kind of him to come and see me."

"Well, there is that," Phil replied indifferently. "You seemed to get
on first-rate with Uncle Amy. Was that the first time you ever talked to
him?"

"Yes. But I remember that once when I was a little chap he met me in the
street over by the college--I remember the exact spot--and gave me a
penny. I seem to remember that he used to do that with children quite
unexpectedly. I imagine that he does a lot of nice things for people."

"Uncle Amy," said Phil deliberately, "is the second grandest man now
present on earth. Daddy is the first."

"I don't know your father, except as I see him in the street."

"I suppose not," said Phil.

These commonplaces were leading nowhere, and they were becoming the
least bit trying.

"My aunts have decided that the Montgomerys and the Holtons might as
well bury the hatchet. They're going to ask your Uncle William to my
party. They can't stand not knowing your aunt."

He did not at once grasp this. He was only dimly conscious of Montgomery
social values and t