and at the same time it’s quiet, too.”  Eva, the expert, wrestling with Carrie over the problem of the new spring dress.  They never guessed that the commonplace man in the frayed old smoking-jacket had banished them all from the room long ago; had banished himself, for that matter.  In his place was a tall, debonair, and rather dangerously handsome man to whom six o’clock spelled evening clothes.  The kind of man who can lean up against a mantel, or propose a toast, or give an order to a man-servant, or whisper a gallant speech in a lady’s ear with equal ease.  The shabby old house on Calumet Avenue was transformed into a brocaded and chandeliered rendezvous for the brilliance of the city.  Beauty was here, and wit.  But none so beautiful and witty as She.  Mrs.—­er—­Jo Hertz.  There was wine, of course; but no vulgar display.  There was music; the soft sheen of satin; laughter.  And he the gracious, tactful host, king of his own domain—­

“Jo, for heaven’s sake, if you’re going to snore go to bed!”

“Why—­did I fall asleep?”

“You haven’t been doing anything else all evening.  A person would think you were fifty instead of thirty.”

And Jo Hertz was again just the dull, grey, commonplace brother of three well-meaning sisters.

Babe used to say petulantly, “Jo, why don’t you ever bring home any of your men friends?  A girl might as well not have any brother, all the good you do.”

Jo, conscience-stricken, did his best to make amends.  But a man who has been petticoat-ridden for years loses the knack, somehow, of comradeship with men.  He acquires, too, a knowledge of women, and a distaste for them, equalled only, perhaps, by that of an elevator-starter in a department store.

Which brings us to one Sunday in May.  Jo came home from a late Sunday afternoon walk to find company for supper.  Carrie often had in one of her school-teacher friends, or Babe one of her frivolous intimates, or even Eva a staid guest of the old-girl type.  There was always a Sunday night supper of potato salad, and cold meat, and coffee, and perhaps a fresh cake.  Jo rather enjoyed it, being a hospitable soul.  But he regarded the guests with the undazzled eyes of a man to whom they were just so many petticoats, timid of the night streets and requiring escort home.  If you had suggested to him that some of his sisters’ popularity was due to his own presence, or if you had hinted that the more kittenish of these visitors were probably making eyes at him, he would have stared in amazement and unbelief.

This Sunday night it turned out to be one of Carrie’s friends.

“Emily,” said Carrie, “this is my brother, Jo.”

Jo had learned what to expect in Carrie’s friends.  Drab-looking women in the late thirties, whose facial lines all slanted downward.

“Happy to meet you,” said Jo, and looked down at a different sort altogether.  A most surprisingly different sort, for one of Carrie’s friends.  This Emily person was very small, and fluffy, and blue-eyed, and sort of—­well, crinkly looking.  You know.  The corners of her mouth when she smiled, and her eyes when she looked up at you, and her hair, which was brown, but had the miraculous effect, somehow, of being golden.