“No sign of ’em at first.  Nothing but ladies young and old—­even some of us older ranching set—­making final purchases of ribbons and such for the sole benefit of Wilfred Lennox, and talking in a flushed manner about him whenever they met.  Almost every darned one of ’em had made it a point to stroll past the Price mansion that afternoon where Wilfred was setting out on the lawn, in a wicker chair with some bottles of beer surveying Nature with a look of lofty approval and chatting with Henrietta about the real things of life.

“Beryl Mae Macomber had traipsed past four times, changing her clothes twice with a different shade of ribbon across her forehead and all her college pins on, and at last she’d simply walked right in and asked if she hadn’t left her tennis racquet there last Tuesday.  She says to Mrs. Judge Ballard and Mrs. Martingale and me in the Cut-Rate Pharmacy, she says:  ’Oh, he’s just awfully magnetic—­but do you really think he’s sincere?’ Then she bought an ounce of Breath of Orient perfume and kind of two-stepped out.  These other ladies spoke very sharply about the freedom Beryl Mae’s aunt allowed her.  Mrs. Martingale said the poet, it was true, had a compelling personality, but what was our young girls coming to?  And if that child was hers—­

“So I left these two lady highbinders and went on into the retail side of the Family Liquor Store to order up some cooking sherry, and there over the partition from the bar side what do I hear but Alonzo Price and Ben Sutton!  Right off I could tell they’d been pinning a few on.  In fact, Alonzo was calling the bartender Mister.  You don’t know about Lon, but when he calls the bartender Mister the ship has sailed.  Ten minutes after that he’ll be crying over his operation.  So I thought quick, remembering that we had now established a grillroom at the country club, consisting of a bar and three tables with bells on them, and a Chinaman, and that if Alonzo and Ben Sutton come there at all they had better come right—­at least to start with.  When I’d given my order I sent Louis Meyer in to tell the two gentlemen a lady wished to speak to them outside.

“In a minute Ben comes out alone.  He was awful glad to see me and I said how well he looked, and he did look well, sort of cordial and bulging—­his forehead bulges and his eyes bulge and his moustache and his chin, and he has cushions on his face.  He beamed on me in a wide and hearty manner and explained that Alonzo refused to come out to meet a lady until he knew who she was, because you got to be careful in a small town like this where every one talks.  ‘And besides,’ says Ben, ’he’s just broke down and begun to cry about his appendicitis that was three years ago.  He’s leaning his head on his arms down by the end of the bar and sobbing bitterly over it.  He seems to grieve about it as a personal loss.  I’ve tried to cheer him up and told him it was probably all for the best, but he says when it comes over him this way he simply can’t stand it.  And what shall I do?’