“I don’t want him to think that I don’t mean things when I say ’em,” she had carefully explained to Mr. Stebbins, “but I can’t bear to think that there’s anybody in New York without money enough to have a good time there.”

Mr. Stebbins had made a note of the sum which the allowance was to compass and had promised to write the letter at once.

“What did you do the last time you were in the city?” Aunt Mary asked.

“I was much occupied with business,” said the lawyer, “but I found time to visit the Metropolitan Museum of Art and—­”

“Good gracious!” exclaimed Aunt Mary, “who was takin’ you ’round!  I never had a second for any museums or arts;—­you ought to have seen a vaudeville, or that gondola place!  I was ferried around four times and the music lasted all through.”  She stopped and reflected.  “I guess you can make that money a hundred a month more,” she said slowly.  “I don’t want the boy to ever feel stinted or have to run in debt.”

Mr. Stebbins smiled, and the result was that Jack began to pay up the bills for his aunt’s entertainment very much more rapidly than he had anticipated doing.

Another pleasant thing was that a week or so later—­very soon after Mrs. Rosscott had given up her town house and returned to the protection of the parental slate-tiles—­Burnett’s father, a peppery but jovial old gentleman (we all know the kind), suddenly asked why Bob never came home any more.  This action on the part of the head of the house being tantamount to the completest possible forgiveness and obliviousness of the past, Burnett’s mother, of whom the inquiry had been made, wept tears of sincerest joy and wrote to the youngest of her flock to return to the ancestral fold just as soon as he possibly could.  He came, and as a result, a fortnight later Jack came, and Mitchell came, and Clover came.  Mrs. Rosscott, as we have previously stated, was already there, and so were Maude Lorne and a great many others.  Some of the others were pretty girls and Burnett and two of his friends found plenty to amuse them, but Burnett’s dearest friend, his bosom friend, his Fidus Achates, found no one to amuse him, because he was in earnest, and had eyes for no feminine prettiness, his sight being dazzled by the radiance of one surpassing loveliness.  He had worked tremendously hard the first month of daily laboring, and felt he deserved a reward.  Be it said for Jack that the reward of which Aunt Mary had the bestowing counted for very little with him except in its relation to the far future.  The real goal which he was striving toward, the real laurels that he craved—­Ah! they lay in another direction.

Middle July is a lovely time to get off among the trees and grass, and lie around in white flannels or white muslins, just as the case may be.  It was too warm to do much else than that, and Heaven knows that Jack desired nothing better, as long as his goddess smiled upon him.