Not a regular battle-ax, you understand.  For all that, she ain’t such a bad-lookin’ old dame, when you get her in a dim light.  Though the expression she generally favors me with, while it ain’t so near assault and battery as it used to be, wouldn’t take the place of two lumps in a cup of tea.

But you kind of get used to that acetic acid stuff after a while; and, since I’m announced by a reg’lar name now—­“Meestir Beel-lard” is Helma’s best stab at Ballard—­and Auntie knowin’ that I got a perfectly good uncle behind me, besides bein’ a private sec. myself, why, she don’t mean more’n half of it.

Besides, even with her sittin’ right there in the room, there’s a lot doin’ that she ain’t in on.  Trust Vee.  Say, she can drum out classical stuff on the piano and fire a snappy line of repartee at me all the while, just loud enough for me to catch and no more, without battin’ an eye.  Say, I’m gettin’ quite a musical education, just helpin’ to stall off Auntie that way.  And you should see the cute schemes Vee puts over—­settin’ a framed photo so it throws the light in the old girl’s eyes, or shiftin’ our chairs so she has to stretch her neck to keep track of us.

Makes an evenin’ call quite an excitin’ game; and when we work in a few minutes of hand-holdin’, or I get away with a hasty clinch, why, that scores for our side.  So, for a personally conducted affair, it ain’t so poor.  I’m missin’ no dates, I notice.  And tuck this away; if it was a case of Vee and a whole squad of aunts, or an uninterrupted two-some with one of these nobody-home dolls, I’d pick Vee and the gallery.  Uh-huh!  I’m just that good to myself.

All was goin’ along smooth and merry, too, until one Wednesday night I discovers another lid ahead of mine on the hall table.  It’s a glossy silk tile, with a pair of gray castor gloves folded neat alongside.  Seein’ which I reaches past Helma for the silver card-tray.

“Huh!” says I under my breath.  “Now, who the giddy gallowampuses is Clyde Creighton?”

“Vair nice gentlemans, Meester Creeton,” whispers Helma.

“I know,” says I; “you’re judgin’ by the hat.”

She springs that silly grin of hers, as usual.  No matter what I say, it gets open-faced motions out of Helma.  But I really wasn’t feelin’ so humorous.  Whoever he was, this Creighton guy had come the wrong evenin’.  Course, I judged it must be Vee he’s callin’ on, and I wasn’t strong for a three-handed session just then.  There was something special I wanted to talk over with Vee this particular evenin’, and I couldn’t see why—­

But, my first glimpse of Clyde soothes me down a lot.  He has curly gray hair, also a mustache that’s well frosted up.  He’s a tall, slim built party, with a wide black ribbon to tie him to his eyeglasses.  Seems to be entertainin’ Auntie.

“Ah!” says he, inspectin’ me casual over the shell rims.  “Mr. Ballard?” And, with a skimpy little nod, he turns back to Auntie and goes on where he broke off, leavin’ me to shake hands with myself if I wanted to.