y. He's a
slim, sharp-faced young gent, with pale hair plastered down tight, and
deep-set gray eyes that sort of wander around aimless.

It might have been kind of dull if it hadn't been for the Adamses; but
Veronica and her Pa are lively enough to wake up any crowd. They're
gen'rally jollyin' each other about something. This time what started it
was someone remarkin' about a weddin' that was to be pulled off soon,
and how the bride was to be the last of five daughters.

"Fortunate parent!" says Pa Adams. "Five! And here I've been unable to
get rid of one."

"You didn't begin early enough," comes back Veronica. "Do you know, Mrs.
McCabe, when I was nineteen Daddy used to be so afraid I would be
stolen away from him that he would almost lie in wait for young men with
a shotgun. After I passed twenty-four he began meeting them at the gate
with a box of cigars in one hand and a shaker full of cocktails in the
other."

Pa Adams joins in the laugh. "It's quite true," says he. "For the last
two or three years Mother and I have been doing our best to marry her
off. We gave up the United States as hopeless, and carted her all over
Europe. No use. Even younger sons wouldn't have her. Now we're back
again, trying the dodge of staying longer in one place. But I fail to
see any encouraging signs."

"I'm sure I've tried to do my part too," says Veronica, smilin' gay. "I
really shouldn't mind being married. My tastes are wholly domestic. But,
dear me, one must find somewhere near the right sort of man, you know!
And so far----" She ends with a shrug of her white shoulders and a
puckerin' of her rosy lips.

"Poor Baron!" sighs Sadie, teasin'.

"I know," says Veronica. "And what a big, handsome creature he is too!
But I fear I'm not equal to carrying on a lifelong monologue."

"Surely that wouldn't be the case with Beverley Duer," suggests Sadie.

"Isn't he entertaining!" says Veronica enthusiastic. "But wouldn't it be
a bit selfish, appropriating all that brilliance just for oneself? And
could it be done? I'm afraid not. About once a month, I imagine,
Beverley would need a new audience. Besides--well, I'm sure I don't
know; only I don't seem thrilled in the way I ought to be."

With chat like that bein' batted back and forth, I expect I wa'n't
takin' much notice of Dudley Byron, who's sittin' quiet between me and
Aunty; but all of a sudden he leans over and whispers eager:

"Isn't she perfectly splendid, though?"

"Eh?"