A butler (one of the three in Minneapolis) swung open the door. Amory stepped inside and divested himself of cap and coat. He was mildly surprised not to hear the shrill squawk of conversation from the next room, and he decided it must be quite formal. He approved of that—as he approved of the butler.     

       “Miss Myra,” he said.     

       To his surprise the butler grinned horribly.     

       “Oh, yeah,” he declared, “she’s here.” He was unaware that his failure to be cockney was ruining his standing. Amory considered him coldly.     

       “But,” continued the butler, his voice rising unnecessarily, “she’s the only one what is here. The party’s gone.”      

       Amory gasped in sudden horror.     

       “What?”      

       “She’s been waitin’ for Amory Blaine. That’s you, ain’t it? Her mother says that if you showed up by five-thirty you two was to go after ’em in the Packard.”      

       Amory’s despair was crystallized by the appearance of Myra herself, bundled to the ears in a polo coat, her face plainly sulky, her voice pleasant only with difficulty.     

       “’Lo, Amory.”      

       “’Lo, Myra.” He had described the state of his vitality.     

       “Well—you got here, anyways.”      

       “Well—I’ll tell you. I guess you don’t know about the auto accident,” he romanced.     

       Myra’s eyes opened wide.     

       “Who was it to?”      

       “Well,” he continued desperately, “uncle ’n aunt ’n I.”      

       “Was any one killed?”      

       Amory paused and then nodded.     

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