“I tell you, Mrs. Shongut, it is a pleasure to be invited out to your house.  You should know how this old bachelor hates hotels.”

“And you should know how welcome you always are, Mr. Hochenheimer.  To-morrow night you take supper with us too.  We don’t take ’no’—­eh, Adolph?  Renie?”

“I appreciate that, Mrs. Shongut; but I—­I don’t know yet—­if—­if I stay over.”

Mr. Shongut batted a playful hand and shuffled toward the door.  “You stay, Hochenheimer!  I bet you a good cigar you stay.  Ain’t I right, Renie, that he stays?  Ain’t I right?”

Against the sideboard, fingering her white dress, Miss Shongut regarded her parents, and her smile was as wan as moonlight.

“Ain’t I right, Renie?”

“Yes, papa.”

* * * * *

On the bit of porch, the hall light carefully lowered and cushions from within spread at their feet, the dreamy quiet of evening and air as soft as milk flowed round and closed in about Miss Shongut and Mr. Hochenheimer.

They drew their rocking-chairs arm to arm, so that, behind a bit of climbing moonflower vine, they were as snug as in a bower.  Stars shone over the roofs of the houses opposite; the shouts of children had died down; crickets whirred.

“Is the light from that street lamp in your eyes, Renie?”

“No, no.”

The wooden floor reverberated as they rocked.  A little thrill of breeze fluttered her filmy shoulder scarf against his hand.  To his fermenting fancy it was as though her spirit had flitted out of the flesh.

“Ah, Miss Renie, I—­I—­”

“What, Mr. Hochenheimer?”

“Nothing.  Your—­your little shawl, it tickled my hand so.”

She leaned her elbow on the arm of her chair and cupped her chin in her palm.  Her eyes had a peculiar value—­like a mill-pond, when the wheel is still, reflects the stars in calm and unchurned quiet.

“You look just like a little princess to-night, Miss Renie—­that pretty shawl and your eyes so bright.”

“A princess!”

“Yes; if I had a tin suit and a sword to match I’d ride up on a horse and carry you off to my castle in Cincinnati.”

“Say, wouldn’t it be a treat for Wasserman Avenue to see me go loping off like that!”

“This is the first little visit we’ve ever had together all by ourselves, ain’t it, Miss Renie?  Seems like, to a bashful fellow like me, you was always slipping away from me.”

“The flowers and the candies you kept sending me were grand, Mr. Hochenheimer—­and the letter—­to-day.”

“You read the letter, Miss Renie?”

“Yes, I—­I—­You shouldn’t keep spoiling me with such grand flowers and candy, Mr. Hochenheimer.”

“If tell you that never in my life I sent flowers or candy, or wrote a letter like I wrote you yesterday, to another young lady, I guess you laugh at me—­not, Miss Renie?”