But of course Aunty wins out in the end.  It’s a cinch, with everything on her side.  Anyway, the next thing I knows about their plans is when I finds their names in the sailin’ list, bound for the Big Ditch, with most everyone else that could get away.  And I makes my discovery about three hours after the boat has left.

But that was in January.  And I expect it was a fine thing for Vee, seein’ the canal before it revised the geography, and dodgin’ all kinds of grip weather, and meetin’ a lot of new people.  And if it’s worth all that bother to Aunty just so anybody can forget a party no more important than me—­why, I expect that’s all right too.

But it’s just like some folks to remember what they’re ordered to forget.  Anyway, I got bulletins now and then, and I was fairly well posted as to when Aunty landed back in New York, and where she unpacked her trunks.  That helped some; but it didn’t cut the barbed wire exactly.

And, say, I was gettin’ some anxious to see Vee once more.  Nearly two weeks she’d been home, and not so much as a glimpse of her!  I’d doped out all kinds of brilliant schemes; but somehow they didn’t work.  No lucky breaks seemed to be comin’ my way, either.

And then, here last Sunday after dinner, I just hauls out that church weddin’ costume I’d collected once, brushes most of the kinks out of my red hair, sets my jaw solid, and starts to take a sportin’ chance.  On the way up I sketches out a scenario, which runs something like this: 

A maid answers the ring.  I ask if Miss Vee is in.  The maid goes to see, when the voice of Aunty is heard in the distance, “What!  A young gentleman asking for Verona?  No card?  Then get his name, Hortense.”  Me to the maid, “Messenger from Mr. Westlake, and would Miss Vee care to take a short motor spin.  Waiting below.”  Then more confab with Aunty, and five minutes later out comes Vee.  Finale:  Me and Vee climbin’ to the top of one of them Riverside Drive busses, while Aunty dreams that she’s out with Sappy Westlake, the chosen one.

Some strategy to that—­what?  And, sure enough, the piece opens a good deal as I’d planned; only instead of me bein’ alone when I pushes the button, hanged if two young chappies that had come up in the elevator with me don’t drift along to the same apartment door.  We swap sort of foolish grins, and when Hortense fin’ly shows up everyone of us does a bashful sidestep to let the others go first.  So Hortense opens on what looks like a revolvin’ wedge.  But that don’t trouble her at all.

“Oh, yes,” says she, swingin’ the door wide and askin’ no questions.  “This way, please.”

Looked like we was expected; so there’s no ducking and while we’re drapin’ our hats on the hall rack I’m busy picturin’ the look on Aunty’s face when she singles me out of the trio.  They was panicky thoughts, them.