"I reminded him this morning. I told him at recess." It was the longest remark Corinne had made all evening.

"Yes, dear, but he may not be well. He may be ill. He might just be in bed You could--you could take him a lovely piece of birthday cake--couldn't she, Mr. Miller?"

"Sure." Miller placed a hand on the back of Miss Aigletinger's chair.

"Must be quite a youngster," he mused, sucking his tooth. "What is he, the Frank Merriwell of his class or something?"

"The who?" coolly inquired Miss Aigletinger, addressing the hand on the back of her chair.

"The school athalete. You know. All the gals after him. The demon of the cinder path, the---"

"Him an athalete?" interrupted Lawrence Phelps. "He can't even catch a football. You know what? Robert Selridge saw Ford coming across the playground and yelled at him and chucked a football at him, not even fast, and you know what Ford did?"

Mr. Miller, inserting the nail of his little finger between two molars, shook his head.

"He jumped outa the way. Honest ! He wouldn't even chase it afterwards.

Boy, Robert Selridge nearly socked him one." Lawrence Phelps turned his burly little face toward his hostess. "Where'd Ford come from anyways, Corinne? He didn't come from around here anywheres."

"Mmm," Corinne replied inaudibly.

"What?" said Lawrence.

"She said none of your beeswax," Dorothy Wood translated loyally.

"Corinne," rebuked Mr. Miller, removing his finger from his mouth. "Is 'at nice?"

"Tell 'em about his back," Marjorie Phelps suggested to her brother. She turned brightly to the others, informing them, "Lawrence saw his back at Doctor's Hour. It's all things all over it. Big awful marks, like."

"Oh, that. Yeah," said her brother. "His mother heats him up."

The hostess stood up. "You're a liar," she accused, trembling. "He hurt himself. He fell and hurt himself."

"Children, children!" This from Miss Aigletinger, with a nervous glance at the baron, who, undisturbed, went on staring profoundly at an embroidered pattern in the tablecloth.

"All right, all right, he fell and hurt himself," Lawrence Phelps said.

Corinne sat down, still trembling.

"Lawrence, I don't ever want to hear you say anything like that again,"

Miss Aigletinger said. "It does not happen to be true, in the first place.

The school board investigates those things-all those things. If that boy's mother "

"Oh, I know why she likes Ford," Lawrence interrupted ambiguously. "I don't wanna tell, though." He glanced over at his hostess's suddenly upjerked, burning little face. Then, efficiently, as though he were dealing with butterfly wings, he tore his hostess's horror apart on the spot.

"Because Louise Selfridge was sore Corinne won the elocution and -right in front of everybody in the wardrobe closet-Louise called Corinne a Heinie spy. And Louise said even her father said why don't Corinne and her father go to Germany where all the Heinies are-the Kaiser and all. And Corinne started to cry. And Raymond Ford was wardrobe monitor that day, and he chucked Louise Selridge's coat out in the aisle," Lawrence said, taking a breath, but not quite finished. "And last week Corinne brought her dog after school to show Ford. And she wrote his name on the blackboard at recess and tried to erase it, but everybody saw it." No more butterfly wings on hand Lawrence looked vaguely in the direction of the foot. man behind him. "Can I please have another spoon? Mine fell."

"Lawrence! We don't repeat those things."

"Honest!" said Lawrence, as though his integrity, were in jeopardy. "You can ask my sister. Ask anybody. Ford was giving Louise Selridge her coat when she said it. Only he didn't give it to her. He chucked it right out in the aisle. Everybody---"

"What time is it, Miller?" the baron asked suddenly.

Everyone in the room became still. Miller pushed back the sleeve of his coat.

"Twenty past nine, Baron." Miller turned to Corinne. "What's it gonna be, kiddo? You wanna look for this boy or not?"

"Yes," said Corinne, and walked with adult dignity out of the dining room.

The dark road was icy, and there were no skid chains on Mr. Miller's automobile-he didn't believe in 'em.

"Yours'll be here tomorrow," he promised Corinne in the unfraternal darkness. He was speaking incessantly of his brother's alligators. "Little bit of a fella. But he'll grow. He'll grow, all right." He chuckled, tobaccobreathily, toward Corinne.

"Please don't go so fast."

"What's 'at? Somebody scared?"

"It's this street," Corinne said excitedly. "Right here, please---"

"Where?" said Miller.

"You passed it! "

"Well, we can fix that," said Miller.

The car skidded, selected its own direction, and came to a stop with its forewheels up on the sidewalk.

Corinne, shivering, let herself out of the car and ran the slippery quarter of a block to the place where the Lobster Palace should have been shining yellowly.

But something was wrong. The Lobster Palace wasn't shining at all. Both the front show window and the electric sign were as black as the night itself.

"Closed, eh?" Miller said, reaching Corinne. His breath in the sub-zero air was almost more visible than he was.

"The house can't be closed. The restaurant may be. but the house can't be.

People live upstairs. Raymond Ford lives upstairs."

Instantly, as though in proof of part of Corinne's remark, a woman carrying two suitcases charged out of the black doorway, brushing past Corinne. No kind of hall light preceded or followed her. She snorted visibly over to the curb, dropped her two suitcases on the icy walk and faced the doorway from which she had emerged. Then, just as Corinne felt Mr. Miller pull her neutrally out of the way, another figure, that of a small boy, came out of the building. Corinne excitedly called his name, but the boy didn't seem to hear her. He went directly to the woman with the suitcases, stood beside her and faced as she was facing. He took something out of his pocket, unfolded it, put it on his ad and pulled it down over his ears. Corinne knew at it was his aviator's cap.

"Listen," said the lady with Raymond Ford harshly. "I'm entitled to my galoshes."

Corinne saw with a start that the lady was not addressing Raymond Ford, but something in the doorway-a glowing cigar.

"I toldya," said the cigar. "The restront's locked. And it's gonna stay locked the whole time the boss is his brudda's funeral. Listen. You had all affernoona ick up ya galoshes. '

"Yeah?" said the lady with Raymond Ford.

"Yeah," said the cigar, and got even redder. "You in't supposa leave no galoshes in no kitchen. You now that."

"Listen," said the lady with Raymond Ford. "I'm gonna stop at the damn pleece station on my way to the station, hear me? A person's entitleda their property."

"Let's go. Please," Raymond Ford said, taking the lady's arm. "Please.

He's not gonna give ya the galoshes; can'tcha see?"

"Leggo, you. Don't rush me," the lady said. "I'm not leavin' the vicinity without them galoshes."

Something like laughter came from the doorway.

"If ya feet get cold, break open one a them bagsa yours," suggested the cigar. "You got plenty t'keep ya warm. You got plenty to keep you warm."

"Mother, c'mon. Please," Raymond Ford said. "Can'tcha see he's not gonna give 'em to ya?"

"I want them galoshes."

A door banged. Frightened, Corinne looked and saw that the cigar was gone.

Raymond Ford's mother ran a few wild steps on the ice, stopped perilously short, recovered her balance, and began to pound with her fist against the dark show window of the restaurant--at the place where normally the lobsters could be seen winking on cracked ice. She screamed as she pounded, articulating words that Corinne had nervously read from walls and fences.

Corinne felt Mr. Miller's grip tighten on her arm, but Corinne stayed where she was, because Raymond Ford was now standing before her.

He spoke to Corinne just loud enough to be heard over his mother's activities directly behind him.

"I'm sorry I couldn't come to your party."

"That's all right."

"How's your dog?" said Raymond Ford.

"He's fine."

"That's good," said Raymond Ford, and went over to his mother and began to pull her by the arm. But she wrenched successfully away from him, scarcely losing the rhythm of her violence.

Mr. Miller came forward, cupping his cold ears with his hands. "I'd be glad to drive you people to the station, if that's where you're going," he shouted.

Raymond Ford's mother stopped pounding and shouting. She turned away from the show window, glanced briefly at Miller in the darkness, then at Corinne, then back at Miller. Raymond Ford indicated Corinne with his thumb. "She's a friend of mine," he said.

"You got a car?" Mrs. Ford asked Miller.

"How could I take you to the station if I didn't?"

"Where it is?"

Miller pointed. "Right there."

Mrs. Ford nodded, absently. She then turned around and, using an Anglo-Saxon verb, gave the dark show window a short, obscene command. She turned back to Miller. "Let's get otta here before I get mad," she told him. She sat beside Miller in the front seat, and the two children sat in back with the suitcases. The car moved off on a slippery tangent, straightened out, and went on.

"He wasn't the guy that engaged me for the position," Mrs. Ford announced suddenly. "The guy that engaged me was a gentleman." She was addressing Miller's profile. "Hey, haven't I seen you in the restront?"

"I don't believe so," Miller said stiffly.

"Live in this lousy burgh?"

"No, I do not."

"Just work here, ah?"

"Mother, don't ask the man so many questions. Why do you wanna ask the man so many questions?"

She turned savagely around in her seat. "Listen, you. Stay otta the discussion," . she ordered. "When I'm innarested in your two cents I'll letcha "

"I'm Baron von Nordhoffen's secretary," Miller said quickly, to keep peace in his automobile.

"Yeah? The Heinie on the hill?" She sounded suspicious. "How come you're ridin' around in this tin lizzy? Where's all the lemazeens?"

"This happens to be my own car," Miller said coldly.

"That's different. I wondered." Mrs. Ford seemed to reflect for a moment, then sharply and hostilely spoke to Miller's profile. "Don't you high-hat me, Charlie. I don't feel like bein' high-hatted, the mood I'm in."

Miller, a little frightened, cleared his throat. "I can assure you," he said, "nobody's high-hatting anybody."

Mrs. Ford abruptly lowered her window, removed something from her mouth, and flicked it into the night. Closing the window, she said, "I come from a damn good family. I had everything. Money. Social position. Class." She looked at Miller. "You happen to have any cigarettes with ya, by any chance?"

"I'm afraid not."

She shrugged. "Listen, I could-go home right now and say to Dad, 'Dad, I'm tireda bein' an adventuress. l wanna settle down and take it easy for a while.' He'd be tickleda death. I'd make him the happiest Dad in the world."