of the
cottage trips a cerise-tinted vision in an all lace dress and a
butterfly wrap. Course, it's Robbie. She's heard the sound of wheels,
and has come a runnin'.

"Oh!" says she, stoppin' sudden and puckerin' her baby mouth into a
pout. "I thought someone was arriving, you know." Which was a sad
jolt to give a rescuer, wa'n't it?

"Sorry," says I; "but I'm all there is."

"You're the boy from Uncle Robert's office--Torchy, isn't it?" says she.

"It is," says I. "Fired up with flowers and Mr. Robert's compliments."

"The old dear!" says she, grabbin' the box, slippin' off the string and
divin' into the tissue paper. "Orchids, too! Oh, goody! But they
don't go with my coat. Pooh! I don't need it, anyway." With that
she, sheds the butterfly arrangement, chuckin' it casual on the steps,
and jams the whole of that fifty dollars' worth under her sash.
"There, how does that look, Mr. Torchy?" says she, takin' a few fancy
steps back and forth.

"All right, I guess," says I.

"Stupid!" says she, stampin' her double A-1 pump peevish. "Is that the
prettiest you can say it? Come, now--aren't they nice on me?"

"Nice don't cover it," says I. "I was only wonderin' whether orchids
was invented for you, or you for orchids."

This brings out a frilly little laugh, like jinglin' a string of silver
bells, and she shows both dimples. "That's better," says she. "Almost
as good as some of the things Bud Chandler can say. Dear old Bud!
He's such fun!"

"He was the gray-eyed one, wa'n't he?" says I.

"Why, yes," says she. "He was a dear. So was Oggie Holcomb. I wish
Nick would ask them both up."

"Eh?" says I. "The also rans? Here?"

"Pooh!" says she. "Why not? It's frightfully dull, being all alone.
But Nick won't do it, the old bear!"

Which reminds me that I ought to be scoutin' for black eyes, or wrist
bruises, or finger marks on her neck. Nothin' of the kind shows up,
though.

"Been kind of rough about it, has he?" says I.

"He's been perfectly awful!" says she. "Sulking around as though I'd
done something terrible! But I'll pay him up. Come, you're not going
back tonight, are you?"

"Can't," says I. "No train."

"Then you must play with me," says she, grabbin' my hand kittenish and
startin' to run me across the yard.

"But, see here," says I, followin' her on the jump. "Where's Hubby?"

"Oh, I don't know," says she. "Off tramping through the woods with his
dog, I suppose. He'