She don't stint herself that way. And the little streak of early
gray through her front hair gives her sort of a distinguished look.
There's nothin' friendly, though, about the straight, tight-lipped
mouth, or the surprised look in her eyes as she discovers me standin'
there.

"Mr. McCabe?" says she.

"You see," says I, grinnin' foolish, "there's a chap outside who--who
has a batty idea he used to know you."

"Really?" says she, narrowin' her eyes a bit.

"Bolan's the name, Ma'am," I goes on, "Larry Bolan."

It wa'n't much,--just a quiver, a little lift of the shoulders, a
bunchin' of the fingers. Then she bites her lip and gets a grip on
herself. "Well?" says she. "What of it?"

"Why," says I, "he--he wants to have a talk with you. Course, though, if
you don't know him, or don't remember, all you got to do----"

"Yes, yes!" she breaks in. "I understand. Wait!"

A couple of minutes she stands there, never makin' a crack or givin' any
sign, except that the toe of one slipper taps the rug restless. Then she
gives her decision. "You may bring him in," says she.

"How about sendin' him?" I suggests.

"No, not alone," says she. "I want you to stay."

So I steps to the door. "Larry," says I, "you're called on the carpet;
but for the love of soup don't pull any of that old sweetheart stuff
reckless! The signs ain't right."

And a fat lot of notice he takes of my advice. Trust Larry! He pushes in
eager ahead of me, marches straight to where she is, gives her one
mushy, admirin' look, and the next thing I know he has reached for one
of her hands and is kissin' it as graceful and romantic as James K.
Hackett doin' a Zenda stunt.

Gave Mrs. Steele some jolt, that play did; for it's plain she was fixin'
to frost him at the start. But it's all over before she has time to draw
a breath, and he has let her fingers slip through his caressin'.

"Katie!" says he.

She flushes and stiffens up. "Silly as ever, I see," says she.

"More so," says he. "But it's only seeing you again that brings on the
attack. Katie, you're glorious!"

"Please!" says she, protestin'. "I've rather outgrown my liking for
sentimental speeches. Tell me, why do you hunt me up like this, after so
long?"

"Can you ask?" says he. "Look! No--in my eyes, Katie."

And, say, with things gettin' that gummy, I was beginnin' to feel like a
cold boiled potato served accidental with the pie.

"Excuse me," says I, "but maybe I'd better wait in the next