ift
of understanding.

"You mean those flowers of womanhood whom chivalrous man----"

"Shut up," commanded George. He thought for a brief space; then his jaw
set. "Excuse me a moment."

Drawing hotel stationery toward him, he scribbled rapidly and then
sealed and addressed what he had written.

"Uncle Martin, your car's outside doing nothing; would you mind going
on ahead and giving this little note to Cousin Alys Brewster-Smith, and
then staying around and having a little supper with Genevieve and me?
We'll be out soon, but there are a few things I want to talk over with
Genevieve alone before we come."

Uncle Martin would oblige. But when he had gone, there seemed to
be nothing of pressing importance that George had to communicate to
Genevieve. Nor half an hour later, when he led his bride of four months
up to their home, had he delivered himself of anything which seemed to
require privacy.

As they stepped up on the porch, softly lighted by a frosted bulb in its
ceiling, Cousin Emelene, her cat under her arm, came out of the front
door and hurried past them, without speech.

"Why, Cousin Emelene!" George called after her.

She paused and half turned.

"You--you--" she half choked upon expletives that would not come
forth. "The man will come for my trunks in the morning." Thrusting a
handkerchief to her face, she hurried away.

"George, what can have happened to her?" cried the amazed Genevieve.

But George was saved answering her just then. Another figure had emerged
from the front door--a rather largish figure, all in black--her left
hand clutching the right hand of a child, aged, possibly, five. And this
figure did not cower and hurry away. This figure halted, and glowered.

"George Remington," exclaimed Cousin Alys, "after your
invitation--you--you apostate to chivalry! That outrageous letter! But
if I am leaving your home, thank God I'm leaving it for a home of my
own! Come on, Martin!"

With that she stalked away, dragging the sleepy Eleanor.

Not till then did George and Genevieve become aware that Uncle Martin
was before them, having until now been obscured by Mrs. Brewster-Smith's
outraged amplitude. His arms were loaded with coats, obviously feminine.

"Uncle Martin!" exclaimed George.

"George," gulped his uncle--"George--" And then he gained control of a
dazed sort of speech. "When I gave her that letter I didn't know it was
a letter of eviction. And the way she broke down before me--a