es; but it ain't fine loafers sitting
round in parlors talking about the weather that's going to hold you
very long, when all the time your heart's up and over the back fence
with the kids who are playing the games. And, oh, say!" he broke off
abruptly--"would you think it awfully impertinent of me if I asked you
how you do your hair like that? 'Cause, surer than smoke, after I get
home and supper is over and the dishes are washed and I've just got to
sleep, that little wife of mine will wake me up and say: 'Oh, just
one thing more. How did that lady in the train do her hair?'"

With her chin lifting suddenly in a burst of softly uproarious
delight, the Youngish Girl turned her head half-way around and raised
her narrow, black-gloved hands to push a tortoise-shell pin into
place.

"Why, it's perfectly simple," she explained. "It's just three puffs,
and two curls, and then a twist."

"And then a twist?" quizzed the Traveling Salesman earnestly, jotting
down the memorandum very carefully on the shiny black surface of his
sample-case. "Oh, I hope I ain't been too familiar," he added, with
sudden contriteness. "Maybe I ought to have introduced myself first.
My name's Clifford. I'm a drummer for Sayles & Sayles. Maine and the
Maritime Provinces--that's my route. Boston's the home office. Ever
been in Halifax?" he quizzed a trifle proudly. "Do an awful big
business in Halifax! Happen to know the Emporium store? The London,
Liverpool, and Halifax Emporium?"

The Youngish Girl bit her lip for a second before she answered. Then,
very quietly, "Y-e-s," she said, "I know the Emporium--slightly. That
is--I--own the block that the Emporium is in."

"Gee!" said the Traveling Salesman. "Oh, gee! Now I _know_ I talk too
much!"

In nervously apologetic acquiescence the Young Electrician reached up
a lean, clever, mechanical hand and smouched one more streak of black
across his forehead in a desperate effort to reduce his tousled yellow
hair to the particular smoothness that befitted the presence of a
lady who owned a business block in any city whatsoever.

"My father owned a store in Malden, once," he stammered, just a trifle
wistfully, "but it burnt down, and there wasn't any insurance. We
always were a powerfully unlucky family. Nothing much ever came our
way!"

Even as he spoke, a toddling youngster from an overcrowded seat at the
front end of the car came adventuring along the aisle after the
swaying, clutching manner of