“Damn the cat!” he said rudely.  “Her name isn’t Buttons.  Her name is Caruthers, my Aunt Selina Caruthers, and the money comes from buttons.”

“Oh!” feebly.

“It’s an old business,” he went on, with something of proprietary pride.  “My grandfather founded it in 1775.  Made buttons for the Continental Army.”

“Oh, yes,” I said.  “They melted the buttons to make bullets, didn’t they?  Or they melted bullets to make buttons?  Which was it?”

But again he interrupted.

“It’s like this,” he went on hurriedly.  “Aunt Selina believes in me.  She likes pictures, and she wanted me to paint, if I could.  I’d have given up long ago—­oh, I know what you think of my work—­but for Aunt Selina.  She has encouraged me, and she’s done more than that; she’s paid the bills.”

“Dear Aunt Selina,” I breathed.

“When I got married,” Jim persisted, “Aunt Selina doubled my allowance.  I always expected to sell something, and begin to make money, and in the meantime what she advanced I considered as a loan.”  He was eyeing me defiantly, but I was growing serious.  It was evident from the preamble that something was coming.

“To understand, Kit,” he went on dubiously, “you would have to know her.  She won’t stand for divorce.  She thinks it is a crime.”

“What!” I sat up.  I have always regarded divorce as essentially disagreeable, like castor oil, but necessary.

“Oh, you know well enough what I’m driving at,” he burst out savagely.  “She doesn’t know Bella has gone.  She thinks I am living in a little domestic heaven, and—­she is coming tonight to hear me flap my wings.”

“Tonight!”

I don’t think Jimmy had known that Dallas Brown had come in and was listening.  I am sure I had not.  Hearing his chuckle at the doorway brought us up with a jerk.

“Where has Aunt Selina been for the last two or three years?” he asked easily.

Jim turned, and his face brightened.

“Europe.  Look here, Dal, you’re a smart chap.  She’ll only be here about four hours.  Can’t you think of some way to get me out of this?  I want to let her down easy, too.  I’m mighty fond of Aunt Selina.  Can’t we—­can’t I say Bella has a headache?”

“Rotten!” laconically.

“Gone out of town?” Jim was desperate.

“And you with a houseful of dinner guests!  Try again, Jim.”

“I have it,” Jim said suddenly.  “Dallas, ask Anne if she won’t play hostess for tonight.  Be Mrs. Wilson pro tem.  Anne would love it.  Aunt Selina never saw Bella.  Then, afterward, next year, when I’m hung in the Academy and can stand on my feet”—­("Not if you’re hung,” Dallas interjected.)—­“I’ll break the truth to her.”

But Dallas was not enthusiastic.

“Anne wouldn’t do at all,” he declared.  “She’d be talking about the kids before she knew it, and patting me on the head.”  He said it complacently; Anne flirts, but they are really devoted.