cover, a deep and generous dimple in the ruddiest part of his right cheek.  He was dressed in the latest suit produced by Schaffner and Marx; he wore a tie of variegated silk which, like Browning’s star, “dartled” now red, now blue.  The silk handkerchief, which protruded carefully from his breast pocket, also “dartled.”  So did the socks.  One felt that the heart of this young man matched his tie and socks.  It was resplendent with the vanity and hopefulness and illusions of twenty-two years.

The large, dingy, chocolate-colored lobby became suddenly a background to Mr. James Greely, cashier of the Millings National Bank, and the only child of its president.

Upon the ruffled and rumpled Dickie he smiled pleasantly, made a curious gesture with his hand—­they both belonged to the Knights of Sagittarius and the Fire Brigade—­and came to lean upon the desk.

“Holiday at the bank this morning,” he said, “in honor of Dad’s wedding-anniversary.  We’re giving a dance to-night in the Hall.  Want to come, Dickie?”

“No,” said Dickie, “I hurt my ankle last night on the icy pavement.  And anyhow I can’t dance.  And I sort of find girls kind of tiresome.”

“That’s too bad.  I’m sure sorry for you, Hudson.  Particularly as I came here just for the purpose of handing you over the cutest little billy-doo you ever saw.”

He drew out of his pocket an envelope and held it away from Dickie.

“You’re trying to job me, Jim,”—­but Dickie had his head coaxingly on one side and his face was pink.

“I’ll give it to you if you can guess the sender.”

“Babe?”

“Wrong.”

“Girlie?”

“Well, sir, it ain’t Girlie’s fist—­not the fist she uses when she drops me billy-doos.”

Dickie’s eyes fell.  He turned aside in his chair and stopped the grinding of the graphophone.  He made no further guess.  Jim, with his dimple deepening, tossed the small paper into the air and caught it again deftly.

“It’s from the young lady from Noo York who’s helping Mrs. Hudson,” he said.  “I guess she’s kind of wishful for a beau.  She’s not much of a looker Girlie tells me.”

“Haven’t you met her yet, Jim?” Dickie’s hands were in his pockets, but his eyes followed the gyrations of the paper.

“No.  Ain’t that a funny thing, too?  Seems like I never get round to it.  I just saw her peeping at me one day through the parlor curtains while I was saying sweet nothings to Girlie on the porch.  I guess she was kind of in-ter-ested.  She’s skinny and pale, Girlie says.  Your mother hasn’t got any use for her.  I bet you, it won’t be long before she makes tracks back to Noo York, Dickie.  Girlie says she won’t be lingering on here much longer.  Too much competition.”

Jim handed the note to Dickie, who had listened to this speech with his seven-year-old expression.  He made no comment, but silently unfolded Sheila’s note.