Bob considered.  “I guess I do.  But why do I have to ask them?”

“Because they’re not having as much fun as the others.  You wouldn’t like never to be asked by anybody, would you?”

“I don’t care ’bout any girls ever asking me,” Bob insisted stoutly.  “I like boy games better—­’circus’ and ‘grandfather’s barn.’  Only they let the girls play those too,” he added, disgustedly.

He started away.  But he came back again to say, soberly, “I’ll ask Jennie Hobson, if you want me to, Aunt Ellen.  She’s some like a boy, anyway.  Her hair’s cut tight to her head—­and her eyes are funny.  They don’t look at you the same.”

“Do ask her, Bob.  And tell me how she liked it.”  And Ellen looked affectionately after the small, straight little figure trudging away down the street.

Martha’s plans for her reception went on merrily.  On the day set she came hurrying over before breakfast, to administer to her brother-in-law a final admonition concerning the coming evening.

“I hope this isn’t going to be the busiest day of your life?” she urged Burns.

“It’s bound to be,—­getting things clear for to-night,” he assured her, good-humouredly.

“Promise me you won’t let anything short of a case of life or death keep you away?”

“It’s as serious as that, is it?  All right, I’ll be on hand, unless the heavens fall.”

He was good as his word, and at the appointed hour his hostess, keeping an agitated watch on her neighbour’s house, saw him arrive, in plenty of time to dress.  She drew a relieved breath.

“I didn’t expect it,” she said to James Macauley, her husband.

“Oh, Red’s game.  He won’t run away from this, much as he hates it.  Like the rest of us married men, he knows when dodging positively won’t do,” and Macauley sighed as he settled his tie before the reception-room mirror, obtaining a view of himself with some difficulty, on account of the towering masses of flowers and foliage which obscured the glass.

When Burns and Ellen came across the lawn, Martha flew to meet them.

“You splendid people!  Who wouldn’t want to have a reception for such a pair?”

“We flatter ourselves we do look pretty fine,” Burns admitted, eying his wife with satisfaction.  “That gauzy gray thing Ellen has on strikes me as the bulliest yet.  If I could just get her to wear a pink rose in her hair I’d be satisfied.”

“A rose in her hair!  Aren’t you satisfied with that exquisite coral necklace?  That gives the touch of colour she needs.  The rose would overdo it—­and wouldn’t match, besides.”  Martha spoke with scorn.

“Yes, a rose would be maudlin, Red; can’t you see it?” James Macauley gave his opinion with a wink at his friend.  “With the necklace your wife is a dream.  With a rose added she’d be a—­waking up!  Trust ’em, that’s my advice.  When they get to talking about a ‘touch of’ anything, that’s the time to leave ’em alone.  A touch of colour is not a daub.”