“Reminds me—­speaking of the heat—­back in the Hancock campaign—­” Pettit was beginning, but Thatcher was leaving and the editor and Allen followed perforce.  In a moment they heard Thatcher’s voice peremptorily demanding his motor from the steps of the entrance.

“Pettit’s lecture dates must be multiplying,” observed Dan carelessly.

“They seem to be,” Bassett replied, indifferently.

“I can find out easily enough whether he lectured at Churubusco last night or not, or is going to invade Brazil to-morrow,” Dan suggested.

“Easy, but unnecessary.  I think I know what’s in your mind,” Bassett answered, as Marian, interested in the passing show, turned away, “but it isn’t of the slightest importance one way or another.”

“That was Miss Bosworth,” announced Marian—­“the one in the white flannel coat; she’s certainly grand to look at.”

“Please keep your eyes to the front,” Bassett admonished; “you mustn’t stare at people, Marian.”  And then, having dismissed Pettit, and feeling called upon to bring his daughter into the conversation, he said:  “Marian, you remember the Miss Garrison your aunt is so fond of?  Her grandfather died the other day and Miss Garrison had to come home.  Your Aunt Sally is in Montgomery with her now.  Mr. Harwood went to the funeral.”

“That’s too bad,” said Marian, at once interested.  “Sylvia’s a mighty nice girl, and I guess her grandfather had just about raised her, from what she told me.  I wonder what she’s going to do?” she asked, turning to Harwood.

“She’s going back to college to take her degree, and then Mrs. Owen is going to have her at Waupegan this summer.”

“Oh!  I didn’t know Aunt Sally was going to open her house this summer!” said Marian, clearly surprised.  “It must be just that she wants to have Sylvia with her.  They’re the best kind of pals, and of course Aunt Sally and the old professor were friends all their lives.  I’m glad Sylvia’s going to be at the lake; she will help some,” she concluded.

“You don’t mean that you’re tired of the lake?” asked Harwood, noting the half-sigh with which she had concluded.  “I thought all Waupegan people preferred it to the Maine coast or Europe.”

“Oh, I suppose they do,” said Marian.  “But I think I could live through a season somewhere else.  It will be good fun to have Aunt Sally’s house open again.  She must be making money out of that farm now.  I suppose Sylvia’s grandfather didn’t have much money.  Still Sylvia’s the kind of girl that wouldn’t much mind not having money.  She isn’t much for style, but she does know an awful lot.”

“Don’t you think a girl may be stylish and know a lot, too?” asked her father.

“I suppose it is possible,” the girl assented, with a reluctance that caused both men to laugh.

“Let me see:  Papa, you didn’t see Sylvia that summer she was at the lake.  That was the summer you played a trick on us and only spent a day at Waupegan.  Yes; I remember now; you came home from Colorado and said hello and skipped the next morning.  Of course you didn’t see Sylvia.”