Truedale selected the restaurant, arranged for the flowers, and then grew so rigidly quiet and pale that Lynda declared that the summer in town had all but killed him and insisted that he take a vacation.

“We haven’t had our annual honeymoon trip, Con,” she pleaded; “let’s take it now.”

“We’ll—­we’ll go, Lyn, just before Christmas.”

“Not much!” Lynda tossed her head.  “It will take our united efforts from December first until after Christmas to meet the demands of Billy and Ann.”

“But, Lyn, the theatre season has just opened—­and—­”

“Don’t be a silly, Con.  What do we care for that?  Besides, we can go to some place where there are theatres.  It’s too cold to go into the wilds.”

“But New York is the place, Lyn.”

“Con, I never saw you so obstinate and frivolous.  Why, you’re thin and pale, and you worry me.  I will never leave you again during the summer.  Ann was edgy about it this year.  She told me once that she felt all the hotness you were suffering.  I believe she did! Now will you come away for a month?”

“I—­I cannot, Lyn.”

“For two weeks, then?  One?”

“Darling, after next week, yes!  For a week or ten days.”

“Good old Con!  Always so reasonable and—­kind,” Lynda lifted her happy face to his....

But things did not happen as Truedale arranged—­not all of them.  There was a brief tussle, the opening night of the play, with McPherson.  He didn’t see why he should be obliged to sit in the front row.

“I’m too tall and fat!” he protested; “it’s like putting me on exhibition.  Besides, my dress suit is too small for me and my shirt-front bulges and—­and I’m not pretty.  Put the women in front, Truedale.  What ails you, anyway?”

Conning was desperate.  For a moment it looked as if the burly doctor were going to defeat everything.

“I hate plays, you know!” McPherson was mumbling; “why didn’t you bring us to a musical comedy or vaudeville?  Lord! but it’s hot here.”

Betty, watching Truedale’s exasperated face, came to his assistance.

“When at a party you’re asked whether you will have tea or coffee, Dr. McPherson,” she said, tugging at his huge arm, “you mustn’t say ‘chocolate,’ it isn’t polite.  If Con wants to mix up the sexes he has a perfect right to, after he’s ruined himself buying this box.  Do sit down beside me, doctor.  When the audience looks at my perfectly beautiful new gown they’ll forget your reputation and shirt-front.”

So, muttering and frowning, McPherson sat down beside Betty, and Brace in lamblike mood dropped beside him.

“It’s wicked,” McPherson turned once more; “I don’t believe Ann can see a thing.”

“Yes, I can, Dr. McPherson—­if you keep put!  I want to sit between father and mommy-Lyn.  When I thrill, I have to have near me some one particular, to hold on to.”

“You ought to be in bed!”