they come for anyway? To see the house or each other's clothes, or to
eat? Women are funny at a card party," he went on, always ready to
expand an argument comfortably. "It takes them an hour to settle down
and see how everyone else looks, and whether there happens to be a
streak of dust under the piano; and then when the game is just well
started, a maid is nudging you in the elbow to take a plate of hot
chicken, and another, on the other side, is holding out sandwiches, and
all the women are running to look at the prizes. Now when men play
cards--

"Oh, Barry, don't get started!" his cousin impatiently implored. "I'm
too tired to listen. Come out and fix the table."

"Wish I could really help you," said Barry, as they crossed the hall;
and as a further attempt to soothe her ruffled feelings, he added
amiably, "The place looks fine. The buttercups came up, didn't they?"

"Beautifully! You were a dear to get them," said Mrs. Carew, quite
mollified.

Welcomed openly by all four maids, Barry was soon contentedly busy with
screws and molding-board, in a corner of the sunny kitchen. He and Mrs.
Binney immediately entered upon a spirited discussion of equal
suffrage, to the intense amusement of the others, who kept him supplied
with sandwiches, cake and various other dainties. The little piece of
work was presently finished to the entire satisfaction of everyone, and
Barry had pocketed his tools, and was ready to go, when Mrs. Carew
returned to the kitchen wide-eyed with news.

"Barry," said she, closing the door behind her, "George is here!"

"Well, George has a right here," said Barry, as the lady cast a
cautious glance over her shoulder.

"But listen," his cousin said excitedly; "he thinks he has sold the
Holly house!"

"Gee whiz!" said Barry simply.

"To a Mrs. Burgoyne," rushed on Mrs. Carew. "She's out there with
George on the porch now; a widow, with two children, and she looks so
sweet. She knows the Hollys. Oh, Barry, if she only takes it; such a
dandy commission for George! He's terribly excited himself. I can tell
by the calm, bored way she's talking about it."

"Who is she? Where'd she come from?" demanded Barry.

"From New York. Her father died last year, in Washington, I think she
said, and she wants to live quietly somewhere with the children. Barry,
will you be an angel?"

"Eventually, I hope to," said Mr. Valentine, grinning, but she did not
hear him.

"Could you, WOULD you, take her over