"Lives here, doesn't she?" asks Ballard.

"Right again," says I. "Goin' to call?"

"Why," says he, "the fact is, young man, I--er--see here, it's Zen.o.bia Hadley, isn't it?"

"Preble," says I. "Mrs. Zen.o.bia Preble."

"Hang the Preble part!" says he. "He's dead years ago. What I want to know is, who else lives here?"

"Only her and Sister Martha and me," says I.

"Martha, eh?" says he. "Still alive, is she? Well, well! And Zen.o.bia now, is she--er--a good deal like her sister?"

"About as much as Z is like M," says I. "She's a live one, Aunt Zen.o.bia is, if that's what you're gettin' at."

"Thank you," says he. "That is it exactly. And I am glad to hear it. She used to be, as you put it, rather a live one; but I didn't quite know how----"

"Kyrle Ballard, is that you?" comes floatin' out from the front door.

"If it is, and you wish to know anything more about Zen.o.bia Hadley, I should advise you to come to headquarters. Torchy, bring in those sandwiches--and Mr. Ballard, if he cares to follow."

"There!" says I to Ballard. "You've got a sample. That's Zen.o.bia. Are you comin' or goin'?"

Foolish question! He's leadin' the way up the steps.

"Zen.o.bia," says he, holdin' out both hands, "I humbly apologize for following you in this impulsive fashion. I saw you at the theater, and----"

"If you hadn't done something of the kind," says she, "I shouldn't have been at all sure it was really you. You've changed so much!"

"I admit it," says he. "One does, you know, in forty years."

"There, there, Kyrle Ballard!" warns Zen.o.bia. "Throw the calendar at me again, and out you go! I simply won't have it! Besides, I'm hungry.

Torchy is to blame. He suggested hot dog sandwiches. Take a sniff. Do they appeal to you, or have you cultivated epicurean tastes to such an extent that----"

"Ah-h-h-h!" says Ballard, bendin' over the paper bag I'm holdin'. "My favorite delicacy. And if I might be permitted to add a bottle or two of cold St. Louis----"

"Do you think I keep house without an icebox?" demands Zen.o.bia. "Stop your silly speeches, and let's get into the dining-room."

Some hustler, Zen.o.bia is, too. Inside of two minutes she's shed her wraps, pa.s.sed out plates and gla.s.ses, and we're tacklin' a Coney Island collation.

"I had been wondering if it could be you," says Ballard. "I'd been watching you through the gla.s.ses."

"Yes, I know," says Zen.o.bia. "And we had quite settled it that you were a strange admirer. I'm frightfully disappointed!"

"Then you didn't know me?" says he. "But just now----"

"Voices don't turn gray or change color," says Zen.o.bia. "Yours sounds just as it did--well, the last time I heard it."

"That August night, eh?" suggests Mr. Ballard, suspendin' operations on the sandwich and leanin' eager across the table.

He's a chirky, chipper old scout, with a lot of twinkles left in his blue eyes. Must have been some gay boy in his day too; for even now he shows up more or less ornamental in his evenin' clothes. And Zen.o.bia ain't such a bad looker either, you know; especially just now, with her ears pinked up and her eyes sparklin' mischievous. I don't know whether it's from takin' ma.s.sage treatments reg'lar, or if it just comes natural, but she don't need to cover up her collar bone or wear things around her neck.

"Yes, that night," says she, liftin' her gla.s.s. "Shall we drink just once to the memory of it?"

Which they did.

"And now," goes on Zen.o.bia, "we will forget it, if you please."

"Not I," says Ballard. "Another thing: I've never forgiven your sister Martha for what she did then. I never will."

Zen.o.bia indulges in a trilly little laugh. "No more has she forgiven you," says she. "How absurd of you both, just as though--but we'll not talk about it. I've no time for yesterdays. To-day is too full. Tell me, why are you back here?"

"Because seven armies have chased me out of Europe," says he, "and my charming Vienna is too full of typhus to be quite healthy. If I'd dreamed of finding you like this, I should have come long ago."

"Very pretty," says Zen.o.bia. "I'd love to believe it, just for the sake of repeating it to Martha in the morning. She is still with me, you know."

"As saintly as ever?" asks Ballard.

"At thirty Martha was quite as good as she could be," says Zen.o.bia.

"There she seems to have stopped. So naturally her opinion of you hasn't altered in the least."

"And yours?" says he.

"Did I have opinions at twenty-two?" says she. "How ridiculous! I had emotions, moods, mad impulses; anyway, something that led me to give you seven dances in a row and stay until after one A.M. when I had promised someone to leave at eleven. You don't think I've kept up that sort of thing, do you?"

"I don't know," says Ballard. "I wouldn't be sure. One never could be sure of Zen.o.bia Hadley. I suppose that was why I took my chance when I did, why I----"

"Kyrle Ballard, you've finished your sandwich, haven't you?" breaks in Zen.o.bia. "There! It's striking twelve, and I make it a rule never to be sentimental after midnight. You and Martha wouldn't enjoy meeting each other; so you'll not be coming again. Besides, I've a busy week ahead of me. When you get settled abroad again, though, you might let me know.

Good-night. Happy dreams."

And before Ballard can protest he's bein' shooed out.

"You'll take luncheon with me to-morrow," he calls back from his cab.

"Probably not," says Zen.o.bia.

"Oh yes, you will, Zen.o.bia," says he. "I'm a desperate character still.

Remember that!"

She laughs and shuts the door. "There, Torchy!" says she. "See what complications come from combining hot dogs with Bernard Shaw. And if Martha should happen to get down before those bottles are removed--well, I should have to tell her all."

Trust Martha. She did. And when I finished breakfast she was still waitin' for Zen.o.bia to come down and be quizzed. I don't know how far back into fam'ly hist'ry that little chat took 'em, or what Martha had to say. All I know is that when I shows up for dinner and comes downstairs about six-thirty there sits Martha in the lib'ry, rocking back and forth with that patient, resigned look on her face, as if she was next in line at the dentist's.

"Zen.o.bia isn't in yet," says she. "We will wait dinner awhile for her."

Then chunks of silence from Martha, which ain't usual. At seven o'clock we gives it up and sits down alone. We hadn't finished our soup when this telegram comes. First off I thought Martha was goin' to choke or blow a cylinder head, I didn't know which. Then she takes to sobbin'

into the consomme, and fin'lly she shoves the message over to me.

"Wh-a-at?" I gasps. "Eloped, have they?"