or of a room in a Montmartre hotel--and there were
two people in it to help out the composition--and the face of one seemed
somehow to be rather deathly familiar--

That, and Elinor. Why, Hook Nose could "reform" all the rest of his
life in accordance with the highest dictionary standards--and still he
wouldn't be fit to look at his princess, even from inside a cage.

Also, if you happened to be of a certain analytic temperament you could
see what was happening to yourself all the while quite plainly--oh, much
too plainly!--and yet that seemed to make very little difference in its
going on happening. There was Mrs. Severance, for instance. He had been
seeing quite a good deal of Mrs. Severance lately.

"Oh, Ted!" from Peter next door. "Snap it up, old keed, or we'll all of
us be late for lunch."

They had just sat down to lunch and Peter was complaining that
the whipped cream on the soup made him feel as if he were eating
cotton-batting, when a servant materialized noiselessly beside Oliver's
chair.

"Telephone for you, Mr. Crowe. Western Union calling."

Oliver jumped up with suspicious alacrity. "Oh, love, love, love!"
crooned Peter. "Oh, love, love, love!" Oliver flushed. "Don't swipe all
my butter, you simple cynic!" He knew what it was, of course.

"This is Oliver Crowe talking. Will you give me the telegram?"

Nancy and Oliver, finding Sunday mails of a dilatory unsatisfactoriness,
had made a compact to use the wire on that day instead. And even now
Oliver never listened to the mechanical buzz of Central's voice in his
ear without a little pulse of the heart. It seemed to bring Nancy nearer
than letters could, somehow. Nancy had an imperial contempt for boiling
down attractive sentences to the necessary ten or twenty words. This
time, though, the telegram was short.

"Mr. Oliver Crowe, care Peter Piper, Southampton," clicked Central
dispassionately. "I hate St. Louis. I would give anything in the world
if we could only see each other for twenty-four hours. Love. Signed,
Nancy."

And Oliver, after hanging up the receiver, went back to the dining-room
with worry barking and running around his mind like a spoiled puppy,
wondering savagely why so many rocking-chair people took a _crepey_
pleasure in saying it was good for young people in love to have to wait.

XI

Tea for two at the Gondolier, that newest and quotation-marked
"Quaintest" of Village tea rooms. The chief points in the Gondolier's
"q