“You’d better come in and meet my wife and Miss Chapman,” said Roger.  The young man made some feeble demur, but it was obvious to the bookseller that he was vastly elated at the idea of making Miss Chapman’s acquaintance.

“Here’s a friend of mine,” said Roger, ushering Aubrey into the little room where Helen and Titania were still sitting by the fire.  “Mrs. Mifflin, Mr. Aubrey Gilbert, Miss Chapman, Mr. Gilbert.”

Aubrey was vaguely aware of the rows of books, of the shining coals, of the buxom hostess and the friendly terrier; but with the intense focus of an intelligent young male mind these were all merely appurtenances to the congenial spectacle of the employee.  How quickly a young man’s senses assemble and assimilate the data that are really relevant!  Without seeming even to look in that direction he had performed the most amazing feat of lightning calculation known to the human faculties.  He had added up all the young ladies of his acquaintance, and found the sum total less than the girl before him.  He had subtracted the new phenomenon from the universe as he knew it, including the solar system and the advertising business, and found the remainder a minus quantity.  He had multiplied the contents of his intellect by a factor he had no reason to assume “constant,” and was startled at what teachers call (I believe) the “product.”  And he had divided what was in the left-hand armchair into his own career, and found no room for a quotient.  All of which transpired in the length of time necessary for Roger to push forward another chair.

With the politeness desirable in a well-bred youth, Aubrey’s first instinct was to make himself square with the hostess.  Resolutely he occluded blue eyes, silk shirtwaist, and admirable chin from his mental vision.

“It’s awfully good of you to let me come in,” he said to Mrs. Mifflin.  “I was here the other evening and Mr. Mifflin insisted on my staying to supper with him.”

“I’m very glad to see you,” said Helen.  “Roger told me about you.  I hope he didn’t poison you with any of his outlandish dishes.  Wait till he tries you with brandied peaches a la Harold Bell Wright.”

Aubrey uttered some genial reassurance, still making the supreme sacrifice of keeping his eyes away from where (he felt) they belonged.

“Mr. Gilbert has just had a queer experience,” said Roger.  “Tell them about it.”

In the most reckless way, Aubrey permitted himself to be impaled upon a direct and interested flash of blue lightning.  “I was having dinner with your father at the Octagon.”

The high tension voltage of that bright blue current felt like ohm sweet ohm, but Aubrey dared not risk too much of it at once.  Fearing to blow out a fuse, he turned in panic to Mrs. Mifflin.  “You see,” he explained, “I write a good deal of Mr. Chapman’s advertising for him.  We had an appointment to discuss some business matters.  We’re planning a big barrage on prunes.”