“If you live like this all the time, Doctor Churchill,” said John Lansing Birch, leaning back in his chair at last with the air of a man who asks no more of the gods, “I advise you to keep up a bachelor establishment to the end of your days.”

“How would that suit you, Mrs. Fields?” asked the doctor, laughing.

Mrs. Fields, from her place at the end of the table—­they had insisted on having her sit down with them—­answered deliberately: 

“As long as a man’s a man I suppose nothing on earth ever will make him feel so satisfied with himself and all creation as being set down in front of a lot of eatables.  Now what gives me most peace of mind to-night is knowing that that little Ellen Donohue, asleep on my bed, has got enough new clothes, by this day’s work, to make a very good beginning of an outfit.”

“Now, how do you old bachelors feel?” cried Celia, amidst laughter, and the party broke up.

At ten o’clock that evening, when Charlotte had seen her sister comfortably in bed—­for Celia still needed help in undressing—­had tucked in Just and warned Jeff that it was bedtime, the telephone-bell rang.

Lanse and Captain Rayburn sat reading in the living-room, where the telephone stood upon a desk, and Lanse, who was near it, moved lazily to answer it.  But before he could lift the receiver to his ear Charlotte had run into the room and was taking it from him, murmuring, “It’s for me—­I’m sure it is.”

“Well, I could have called you,” said Lanse, looking curiously at her as, with cheeks like poppies, she sat down at the desk and answered.  With ears wide open, although he had again taken up the magazine he had laid down, he listened to Charlotte’s side of the conversation.  It was brief, and no more remarkable than such performances are apt to be, but Lanse easily appreciated the fact that it was giving his sister immense satisfaction.

“Hullo—­yes—­yes!” she called.  “Yes—­oh, is she?  Yes—­yes, I’m so glad!  Yes—­of course you are.  I’m so glad!  Thank you.  Yes—­Good night!” Charlotte hung up the receiver and swung round from the desk, her face radiant, her eyes like stars.

“Is she, indeed?” interrogated Lanse, lifting brotherly, penetrating eyes to her face.  “Engagement just announced?  When is she to be married?  I’m glad you’re glad—­you might so easily have been jealous.”

Charlotte laughed—­a ripple of merriment which was contagious, for Captain Rayburn smiled over the evening paper, and Lanse himself grinned cheerfully.

“Mind telling us the occasion of such heartfelt joy?” he inquired.  But Charlotte came up behind him, laid a warm velvet cheek against his for a moment, patted her uncle on the shoulder, cried, “Good night to you, gentlemen dear!” and ran away to bed.

* * * * *

CHAPTER VIII

Charlotte let little Ellen slide down from her lap, washed and brushed.