"Now, Aunty! Please!" breaks in Verona, shruggin' her shoulders expressive.

"Verona, kindly be silent," goes on Aunty. "This young person known as Torchy has----"

When in drifts Selma and sticks out the silver card plate like she was presentin' arms.

"What is it?" asks Aunty. "Oh!" Then she inspects the names.

For half a minute she stands there, glancin' from me to the cards undecided, and I expect if she could have electrocuted me with a look I'd have sizzled once or twice and then disappeared in a puff of smoke.

But her voltage wa'n't quite high enough for that. Instead she turns to Selma and gives some quick orders.

"Draw these draperies," says she; "then show in the guests. As for you, young man, wait!"

"Gee!" I whispers, as we're shut in. "I wish I knew how to draw up a will."

Vee snickers. "Silly!" says she. "Whatever have you been saying to Aunty now?"

"Me?" says I. "Why, not much. Just a little chat about fam'ly trees and so on, durin' which she----"

Then the arrival chatter in the next room breaks loose, and I stops sudden, starin' at the closed portieres with my mouth open.

"h.e.l.lo!" says I. "Listen who's here!"

"Who?" says Vee.

"That's so," says I. "You don't know 'em, do you? Well, this adds thickenin' to the plot for fair. Remember hearin' me tell of Aunt Zen.o.bia and her new hubby? Well, that's 'em."

"How odd!" says Vee. "But--why, I've heard his voice before! It was at--oh, I know! The nice old gentleman who had the villa next to ours at Mentone."

"Ballard?" I suggests.

"That's it!" says Vee. "And you say he is----"

"My Uncle Kyrle," says I. "My reg'lar uncle, you know."

"Why, Torchy!" gasps Vee, grabbin' me by the arm. "Then--then you----"

"Listen!" says I. "Hear your Aunty usin' her comp'ny voice. My! ain't she the gentle, cooin' dove, though? Now they're gettin' acquainted. So this was where Uncle Kyrle spoke of callin'! Hot time he picked out for it, didn't he, with me here in the condemned cell? Say, what do you know about that, eh?"

Vee smothers another giggle, and slips one of her hands into mine.

"Don't you care!" says she, whisperin'. "And isn't it thrilling? But what shall we do?"

"It's by me," says I. "Aunty told me to wait, didn't she? Well, let's."

Which we done, sittin' there sociable, and every now and then swappin'

smiles as the conversation in the next room took a new turn.

Fin'lly Uncle Kyrle remarks: "You had your little niece with you then, didn't you?"

"Little Verona? Oh, yes," says Aunty. "She is still with me. Rather grown up now, though. I must send for her. Pardon me." And she rings for Selma.

Well, that queers the game entirely. Two minutes more, and Vee has been towed in for inspection and I'm left alone in banishment.

"Well, well!" I can hear Uncle Kyrle sing out. "Why, young lady, what right had you to change from a tow-headed schoolgirl into such a--Zen.o.bia, please face the other way and don't listen, while I try to tell this radiant young person how utterly charming she has become. No, I can't begin to do the subject justice. Twenty or thirty years ago I might have had some success. Ah, me! Those gray eyes of yours, my dear, hold mischief enough to wreck a convention of saints. Ah, blushing, are you? Forgive me. I ought to know better. Let me tell you, though, I've a young nephew with a pair of blue eyes that might be a match for your gray ones. You must allow me to bring him up some day."

And I'd like to have had a glimpse of Vee's face just then. About there, though, Aunty breaks in.

"A nephew, Mr. Ballard?" says she.

"Poor d.i.c.k's boy," says he. "The one we hunted all over the States for after d.i.c.k took him on that wild goose chase from which he never came back. Let's see, you must have known the youngster's mother,--Irene Ballard."

"That stunning young woman with the copper-red hair whom you introduced at Palermo?" asks Aunty. "Is--is she----"

"No," says Uncle Kyrle. "Poor Irene! She was always doing something for someone, you know, and when this big war got under way--well, she went to the front at the first call from the Red Cross. I might have known she would. I suppose she simply couldn't bear to keep out of it--all that suffering, and so much help needed. No more skillful or efficient hands than hers, I'll wager, Madam, were ever volunteered, nor any braver soul. She was pure gold, Irene."

"And," puts in Aunty, "she was--er----"

Uncle Kyrle nods. "In a field hospital, under fire," says he, "late last September. That's all we know. Where do you think, though, I ran across that boy of hers? Found him at Zen.o.bia's; found them both rather, at a theater. Sheer luck. For if you'll pardon my saying it, that youth is a nephew I'm going to be proud of some of these days unless I am----"

Say, this was gettin' a little too personal for me. I'd been shiftin'

around uneasy for a minute or two, and about then I decided it wouldn't be polite to listen any longer. So I make a dash out the side door into the hall, not knowin' just what to do or where to go. And I b.u.mps into Selma wheelin' in the tea wagon. That gives me a hunch.

"Say, Bright Eyes," says I, pushin' a dollar at her, "take this and ditch that tea stuff for a minute, can't you? Harken! There's goin' to be a new arrival at the front door in about a minute, and you must answer the bell. No, don't indulge in that open-face movement. Just watch me close!"

With that I clips past the drawin'-room entrance, opens the front door gentle, and gives the b.u.t.ton a good long push. Then I slides back and digs up a card case that Aunt Zen.o.bia has presented me with only a couple of days ago.

"Here!" says I. "Get out your plate and pa.s.s one of these to the Missus.

That's it. Push it right on her conspicuous. Now! On your way!"

She's real quick at startin', Selma is, when she's shoved brisk from behind. And as she goes through the doorway I stretches my ear to hear what Aunty will say to the new arrival. And, believe me, if I'd given her the lines myself, she couldn't have done it better!

"Mr. Richard Taber Ballard?" says she, readin' the card. Then she turns to Uncle Kyrle. "Why, this must be some----"

"Eh?" says he. "Did you hear that, Zen.o.bia? Torchy, you young rascal, come in here and explain yourself!"

"Torchy!" gasps Aunty. "Did--did you say--Torchy?"

"Anybody callin' for me?" says I, steppin' into the room with a grin on.

And to watch that stary look settle in Aunty's eyes, and see the purple tint spread back to her ears, was worth standin' for all the rough deals I'd ever had from her. At last I had her b.u.mpin' the b.u.mps! Sort of dazed she inspects the card once more, and then glances at me. Do you wonder? Richard Taber Ballard! I ain't got used to it myself.

"Here he is," says Uncle Kyrle jovial, draggin' me to the front, "that scamp nephew I was telling you about. The Richard is for his father, you know; the Taber he gets from his mother--also his red hair. Eh, Torchy? And this, young man, is Miss Verona."

He swings me around facin' her, and I expect I must have acted some sheepish. But trust Vee! What does she do but let loose one of them ripply laughs of hers. Then she steps up, pulls my head down playful with both hands, and looks me square in the eyes.

"Why didn't you tell me before, Torchy," says she, "that you had such a perfectly grand name as all that?"

"Huh!" says I. "A swell chance I've had to tell you anything, ain't I?

But if the folks will excuse us for half an hour, I'll tell you all I know about a lot of things."