red
and tol'able and say, 'How do you do?'"

* * * * *

All these first three weeks of his life in Seattle, he had seen Claire
only on his first call. Twice he had telephoned to her. On one of these
high occasions she had invited him to accompany the family to the
theater--which meant to the movies--and he had wretchedly refused; the
other time she had said that she might stay in Seattle all winter, and
she might go any day, and they "must be sure to have that good long
walk"; and he had said "oh yes," ten or twelve unhappy times, and had
felt very empty as he hung up the receiver.

Then she wrote to invite him to late Sunday breakfast at the
Gilsons'--they made a function of it, and called it bruncheon. The hour
was given as ten-thirty; most people came at noon; but Milt arrived at
ten-thirty-one, and found only a sleepy butler in sight.

He waited in the drawing-room for five minutes, feeling like a
bill-collector. Into the room vaulted a medium-sized, medium-looking,
amiable man, Eugene Gilson, babbling, "Oh, I say, so sorry to keep you
waiting, Mr. Daggett. Rotten shame, do come have a bun or something,
frightfully informal these bruncheons, play auction?"

"Zallright--no," said Milt.

The host profusely led him to a dining-room where--in English fashion,
or something like English fashion, or anyway a close approximation to
the fictional pictures of English fashion--kidneys and sausages and
omelets waited in dishes on the side-board. Mr. Gilson poured coffee,
and chanted:

"Do try the kidneys. They're usually very fair. Miss Boltwood tells me
that you were very good to her on the trip. Must have been jolly trip.
You going to be in town some time, oh yes, Claire said you were in the
university, engineering, wasn't it? have you ever seen our lumbermills,
do drop around some---- Try the omelet before the beastly thing gets
cold, do you mind kicking that button, we'll have some more omelet
in--any time at the mill and I'll be glad to have some one show you
through, how did you find the roads along the Red Trail?"

"Why, pretty fair," said Milt.

Into the room precipitated Mrs. Gilson, in a smile, a super-sweater, and
a sports skirt that would have been soiled by any variety of sport more
violent than pinochle, and she was wailing as she came:

"We're disgraced, Gene, is this Mr. Daggett? how do you do, so good of
you to come, do try the kidneys, they're usually quite decent, ar