mother and Christine and her husband-to-be, whatever his name is—we'll be a happy family. But, I warn you, if I ever hear of Christine's husband getting an apostle spoon—”      

       She smiled up at him. “You are looking very grand to-day. But you have grass stains on your white trousers. Perhaps Katie can take them out.”      

       Quite suddenly K. felt that she thought him too old for such frivolity of dress. It put him on his mettle.     

       “How old do you think I am, Miss Sidney?”      

       She considered, giving him, after her kindly way, the benefit of the doubt.     

       “Not over forty, I'm sure.”      

       “I'm almost thirty. It is middle age, of course, but it is not senility.”      

       She was genuinely surprised, almost disturbed.     

       “Perhaps we'd better not tell mother,” she said. “You don't mind being thought older?”      

       “Not at all.”      

       Clearly the subject of his years did not interest her vitally, for she harked back to the grass stains.     

       “I'm afraid you're not saving, as you promised. Those are new clothes, aren't they?”      

       “No, indeed. Bought years ago in England—the coat in London, the trousers in Bath, on a motor tour. Cost something like twelve shillings. Awfully cheap. They wear them for cricket.”      

       That was a wrong move, of course. Sidney must hear about England; and she marveled politely, in view of his poverty, about his being there. Poor Le Moyne floundered in a sea of mendacity, rose to a truth here and there, clutched at luncheon, and achieved safety at last.     

       “To think,” said Sidney, “that you have really been across the ocean! I never knew but one person who had been abroad. It is Dr. Max Wilson.”      

       Back again to Dr. Max! Le Moyne, unpacking sandwiches from a basket, was aroused by a sheer resentment to an indiscretion.     

   

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