no longer the ticket to threaten to tell the teacher; and, a little later, threatening to tell any adult at all is considered something of a breakdown in morals.  Notoriously, the code is more liable to infraction by people of the physically weaker sex, for the very reason, of course, that their inferiority of muscle so frequently compels such a sin, if they are to have their way.  But for Florence there was now no such temptation.  Looking to the demolition of Atwater & Rooter, an exposure before adults of the results of “Truth” would have been an effect of the sickliest pallor compared to what might be accomplished by a careful use of the catastrophic Wallie Torbin.

* * * * *

On Sunday evening it was her privileged custom to go to the house of fat old Great-Uncle Joseph and remain until nine o’clock, in chatty companionship with Uncle Joseph and Aunt Carrie, his wife, and a few other relatives (including Herbert) who were in the habit of dropping in there, on Sunday evenings.  In summer, lemonade and cake were frequently provided; in the autumn, one still found cake, and perhaps a pitcher of clear new cider:  apples were a certainty.

This evening was glorious:  there were apples and cider and cake, with walnuts, perfectly cracked, and a large open-hearted box of candy; for Uncle Joseph and Aunt Carrie had foreseen the coming of several more Atwaters than usual, to talk over the new affairs of their beautiful relative, Julia.  Seldom have any relative’s new affairs been more thoroughly talked over than were Julia’s that evening; though all the time by means of symbols, since it was thought wiser that Herbert and Florence should not yet be told of Julia’s engagement; and Florence’s parents were not present to confess their indiscretion.  Julia was referred to as “the traveller”; other makeshifts were employed with the most knowing caution, and all the while Florence merely ate inscrutably.  The more sincere Herbert was placid; the foods absorbing his attention.

“Well, all I say is, the traveller better enjoy herself on her travels,” said Aunt Fanny, finally, as the subject appeared to be wearing toward exhaustion.  “She certainly is in for it when the voyaging is over and she arrives in the port she sailed from, and has to show her papers.  I agree with the rest of you:  she’ll have a great deal to answer for, and most of all about the shortest one.  My own opinion is that the shortest one is going to burst like a balloon.”

“The shortest one,” as the demure Florence had understood from the first, was none other than her Very Ideal.  Now she looked up from the stool where she sat with her back against a pilaster of the mantelpiece.  “Uncle Joseph,” she said;—­“I was just thinking.  What is a person’s reason?”

The fat gentleman, rosy with firelight and cider, finished his fifth glass before responding.  “Well, there are persons I never could find any reason for at all.  ‘A person’s reason’?  What do you mean, ’a person’s reason,’ Florence?”