satisfied to hunt up a veranda corner of our own and stick to it.

But Brother-in-law Ferdie, with that doubleply slate roof of his, needs
watchin' close. He has a nutty idea that he ought to be sociable, and
he no sooner spots Mr. Robert and Miss Elsa Hampton, chattin' cozy in a
garden nook, than he's prompted to kick in and explain to 'em all about
the Latin names of the surroundin' vines and shrubbery. Which brings out
business of distress from Marjorie. So one of us has to go shoo him
away.

"Why--er--what's the matter?" says he, blinkin' puzzled, after he's been
led off.

"You was makin' a noise like a seed catalogue, that's all," says I.
"Chop it, can't you?"

Ferdie only stares at me through his thick window-panes and puts on an
injured air. Half an hour later, though, he's at it again.

"You tell him, Torchy," sighs Marjorie. "Try to make him understand."

So I makes a strong stab.

"Look," says I, towin' him off on a thin excuse. "That ain't any
convention they're holdin' out there. So far as they know, it's just a
happy chance. If they're let alone the meetin' may develop tender
moments. Anyway, you might give 'em a show, and if they want you bad
they can run up a flag. See? There's times, you know, when two is bliss,
but a third is a blister. Get me?"

I expect he did, in a way. The idea filters through sort of slow, but he
finally decides that, for some reason too deep for him to dig up, he
ain't wanted mixin' around folksy.

So from then on until dinnertime our couple had all the chance in the
world. Looked like they was doin' noble, too; for every once in a while
we could hear that ripply laugh of hers, or Mr. Robert's hearty
chuckle--which should have been good signs that they was enjoyin' each
other's comp'ny. We even had to send out word it was time to doll up for
dinner.

But an affair like that is like a feather balanced on your nose. Any
boob is liable to open a door on you. In this case, all was lovely and
serene until Marjorie gets this 'phone call. I hears her summonin' Vee
panicky and sketchin' out the details.

"It's Ella May Buell!" says she. "She's down at the station."

Seems that Miss Buell was a boardin'-school friend who was about to cash
in one of them casual blanket invitations that girls give out so
reckless--you know, the Do-come-and-see-me-any-time kind. And, with her
livin' down in Alabama or Georgia somewhere, maybe it looked safe at the
time. But now she was on her w