“Will you?” says Vee,’ sighin’ relieved.  “But do be careful, Torchy.  Don’t—­don’t be reckless.”

“Pooh!” says I.  “That’s my middle name.  If I get slapped on the wrist and perish from it, you’ll know it was all for you.”

Course, it would have been more heroic if Clyde hadn’t been such a ladylike gent.  As it is, he’s about as terrifyin’ as a white poodle.  So I’m still breathin’ calm and reg’lar when I sees him rollin’ up in a cab about seven-twenty-five.  I’m at the curb before he can open the taxi door.

“Sorry,” says I, “but I’m afraid it’s all off.”

“Eh?” says he, gawpin’ at me.

“And you with your suit-case all packed too,” says I.  “How provokin’!  But they’re apt to change their minds, you know.”

“Do you mean,” says he, “that—­er—­ah—­”

“Something like that,” I breaks in.  “Anyway, you can judge.  For, the fact is, some busybody has been gossipin’ about your little trick of bawlin’ out Alicia over the coffee and rolls and draggin’ her round by the hair.”

“Wha-a-at?” he gasps.

“You didn’t mention the divorce, did you?” I goes on.  “Nor go into details about your antique business?  That Marie Antoinette dressin’-table game of yours, for instance.  You know there is such a thing as floodin’ the market with genuine Connecticut-made relics like that.”

Gets him white about the gills, this jab does.

“Puppy!” he hisses out.  “Do you insinuate that—­”

“Not me,” says I.  “I’m too polite.  But when you unload duplicates of the late Oliver Cromwell’s writing-desk you ought to see that both don’t go to friends of Colonel Brassle.  Messy old party, the Colonel, and I understand he’s tryin’ to induce ’em to make trouble.  Course, you might explain all that to Auntie; but in her present state of mind—­ Eh?  Must you be goin’?  Any word to send up?  Shall I tell her this wilt-thou date is postponed to—­”

“Bah!” says Clyde, bangin’ the taxi door shut and signalin’ the chauffeur to get under way.  I think I saw him shakin’ his fist back at me as he drives off.  So rough of him!

Upstairs I finds Auntie all in a flutter and tryin’ to hide it.  Vee looks at me inquirin’ and anxious, but I chats on for a while just as if nothing had happened.  Somehow, I was enjoyin’ watchin’ Auntie squirm.  My mistake was in forgettin’ that Vee was fidgety, too.  No sooner has Auntie left the room, to send Helma scoutin’ down to the front door, than I’m reminded.

“Ouch!” says I. Vee sure can pinch when she tries.  I decides to report.

“Oh; by the way,” says I, as Auntie comes back, “I just ran across Mr. Creighton.”

“Yes?” says Auntie eager.

“He wasn’t feelin’ quite himself,” says I.  “Sudden attack of something or other.  He didn’t say exactly.  But I expect that concert excursion is scratched.”

“Scratched!” says Auntie, lookin’ dazed.