rchy?"

"Clear as mush," says I. "Was it just her way of handin' you the blue
ticket?"

"Not quite," says Mr. Robert. "That is, I'm a little vague as to my
exact status myself. I assume, however, that I've been put on probation,
as it were, until we become better acquainted."

"And you're standin' for that, Mr. Robert!" says I.

He hunches his shoulders. "Miss Hampton has taught me to be humble,"
says he. "I don't pretend to understand her, or to explain her. She is a
brilliant and superior young person. She has, too, certain advanced
ideas which are a bit startling to me. And yet, even when she's hurling
Bernard Shaw or H. G. Wells at me she--she's fascinating. That quirky
smile of hers, the quick changes of expression that flash into those
big, china-blue eyes, the sudden lift of her fine chin,--how thoroughly
alive she is, how well poised! So I--well, I want her, that's all. I--I
want her!"

"Huh!" says I. "Suppose you happened to get her? What would you----"

"Heaven only knows!" says he. "The question seems rather, what would she
do with me? Hence the probation."

"Is this going to be a long-distance tryout," says I, "with you
reportin' for inspection every other Tuesday?"

He says it ain't. Miss Hampton's idea is to shelve the matrimony
proposition and begin by seein' if they can qualify as friends. She
shows him how they'd never really seen enough of each other to know if
they had any common tastes.

"So I am to go with her to a few concerts, art exhibits, lectures, and
so on," says he, "while she has consented to try a week-end yachting
cruise with me. We start Saturday; that is, if I can make up a little
party. But I don't just know whom to ask."

"Pardon me if I seem to hint," says I, "but what's the matter with
brother-in-law Ferdie and Marjorie, with Vee and me thrown in for luck?"

"By Jove!" says he, brightenin' up. "Would you? And would Miss Vee?"

"Maybe we could stand it," says I.

"Done, then!" says he. "I'll 'phone Marjorie at once."

And you should have watched Mr. Robert for the next few days. Talk about
consistent trainin'! Why, he quits goin' to the club, cuts out his
lunch-hour, and reports at the office at eight-thirty. Not for business,
though: Bernard Shaw. Seems he's decided to specialize in Shaw.

Honest, I finds him one noon with a whole tray of lunch gettin' cold,
and him sittin' there with his brow furrowed up over one of them batty
plays.

"Must be some thrillin'," sa