“He seems to be gettin’ the habit, eh?” I suggests to Vee.

She don’t deny it.

“Who’s doin’ the rushin’,” says I, “him or Auntie?”

Vee shrugs her shoulders.  “He came around to-night,” says she, “to show Auntie some miniatures of the late Alicia.  She asked to see them.  Look!  They are examining one now.”

Sure enough they were, with their heads close together.  And Auntie is pattin’ him soothin’ on the arm.

“Kind of kittenish motions, if you ask me,” says I.  “She’s gazin’ at him mushy, too.”

“I never knew Auntie to be quite so absurd,” says Vee.

“Say,” I whispers, “how about givin’ ’em a sample of the butt-in act, so they’ll know how it seems?”

Vee smothers a giggle.

“Let’s!” says she.

So we leaves the alcove and crashes in on this close-harmony duet.  Vee has to see the miniatures of Alicia, and she has to show ’em to me.  Also we pulls up chairs and sits there, listenin’ with our mouths open, right in the midst of things.

Auntie does her best to shunt us, too.

“Verona,” says she, “why don’t you and Torchy get out the chafing-dish and make some of that delicious maple fudge you are so fond of.”

“Why, Aunty!” says Vee.  “When you know I’ve stopped eating candy for a month.”

“You might play something for him,” is Auntie’s next suggestion.  “That new chanson.”

“But we’d much rather listen to you and Mr. Creighton,” says Vee.  “Hadn’t we, Torchy?”

“Uh-huh,” says I.

“Quite flattering, I’m sure,” puts in Clyde, smilin’ sarcastic, while Auntie shoots a doubtful look at me.

But we hung around just the same, and before ten o’clock Creighton announces that he must really be going.

“Me too,” says I, cheerful.  “I’ll ride down with you if you don’t mind.”

“Oh, charmed!” says Clyde.

It wasn’t that I was so strong for his comp’ny, but I’d just annexed the idea that it might be a good hunch to get a little line on exactly who this Mr. Clyde Creighton was.  Vee don’t seem to know anything very definite about him, outside of the Alicia incident; and it struck me that if there was a prospect of havin’ him in the fam’ly, as it were, someone ought to see his credentials.  Anyway, it wouldn’t do any harm to pump him a bit.

“Pardon me for changing my mind,” says Clyde, as we hits the sidewalk, “but I think I prefer to walk downtown.”

“Just what I was goin’ to spring on you,” says I.  “Fine evenin’ for a little thirty-block saunter, too.  Let’s see, the Plutoria’s where you’re staying ain’t it?”

“Why—­er—­yes,” says he, hesitatin’.

I couldn’t make out why he should choke over it, for I’d heard him say distinctly he was livin’ there.  But it was amazin’ what an effect the night air had on his conversation works.  Seemed to dry ’em up.

“Interested in antiques, are you?” says I, sort of folksy.