rts for her full tilt,
me trailin' along and whisperin' to him not to make any fool break unless
he's dead sure. But there's no holdin' him back. She's so busy chattin'
with the reformed Sioux in store clothes that she don't notice Vincent
until he's right alongside, and just as she looks up he lets loose his
indignation.

"Why, grandmother!" says he.

She don't seem so much jarred as you might think. She don't even drop the
fork that she's usin' to twist up a gob of spaghetti on. All she does is
to lift her eyebrows in a kind of annoyed way, and shoot a quick look at
the copper tinted gent across the table.

"There, there, Vincent?" says she. "Please don't grandmother me; at
least, not in public."

"But," says he, "you know that you are a----"

"I admit nothing of the kind," says she. "I may be your mother; but as
for being anybody's grandmother, that is an experience I know nothing
about. Now please run along, Vincent, and don't bother."

That leaves Vincent up in the air for keeps. He don't know what to make
of this reception, or of the change that happened to her; but he feels he
ought to register some sort of a kick.

"But, mother," says he, "what does this mean? Such clothes! And
such--such"--here he throws a meanin' look at the Indian gent.

"Allow me," says grandmother, breakin' in real dignified, "to introduce
Mr. John Little Bear, son of Chief Won-go-plunki. I am very sorry to
interrupt our talk on art, John; but I suppose I must say a few words to
Vincent. Would you mind taking your coffee on the back veranda?"

He was a well-trained red man, John was, and he understands the back out
sign; so inside of a minute the crockery has been pushed away and I'm
attendin' a family reunion that appears to be cast on new lines. Vincent
begins again by askin' what it all means.

"It means, Vincent," says she, "that I have caught up with the
procession. I tried being the old-fashioned kind of grandmother, and I
wasn't a success. Now I'm learning the new way, and I like it first
rate."

"But your--your clothes!" gasps Vincent.

"Well, what of them?" says she. "You made fun of the ones I used to wear;
but these, I would have you know, were selected for me by a committee of
six chorus ladies who know what is what. I am quite satisfied with my
clothes, Vincent."

"Possibly they're all right," says he; "but how--how long have you been
wearing your hair that way?"

"Ever since Madam Montrosini started on my imp