Thirteen attempts to exercise a great philanthropy, and every grown person in sight, with the possible exception of Great-Uncle Joseph, goes into wholly unanticipated fits of horror.  Cause and effect have no honest relation:  Fate operates without justice or even rational sequence; life and the universe appear to be governed, not in order and with system, but by Chance, becoming sinister at any moment without reason.

And while Florence, thus a pessimist, sat beside fat Uncle Joseph during their long, long drive, relatives of hers were indeed going into fits; at least, so Florence would have described their gestures and incoherences of comment.  Moreover, after the movies, straight into such a fitful scene did the luckless Herbert walk when urged homeward by thoughts of food, at about six that evening.  Henry Rooter had strongly advised him against entering the house.

“You better not,” he said earnestly. “Honest, you better not, Herbert!”

“Well, we got apple dumplings for dinner,” Herbert said, his tone showing the strain of mental uncertainty.  “Eliza told me this morning we were goin’ to have ’em.  I kind of hate to go in, but I guess I better, Henry.”

“You won’t see any apple dumplings,” Henry predicted.

“Well, I believe I better try it, Henry.”

“You better come home with me.  My father and mother’ll be perfectly willing to have you.”

“I know that,” said Herbert.  “But I guess I better go in and try it, anyhow, Henry.  I didn’t have anything to do with what’s in the Oriole.  It’s every last word ole Florence’s doing.  I haven’t got any more right to be picked on for that than a child.”

“Yes,” Henry admitted.  “But if you go and tell ’em so, I bet she’d get even with you some way that would probably get me in trouble, too, before we get through with the job. I wouldn’t tell ’em if I was you, Herbert!”

“Well, I wasn’t intending to,” Herbert responded gloomily; and the thought of each, unknown to the other, was the same, consisting of a symbolic likeness of Wallie Torbin at his worst.  “I ought to tell on Florence; by rights I ought,” said Herbert; “but I’ve decided I won’t.  There’s no tellin’ what she wouldn’t do.  Not that she could do anything to me, particyourly——­”

“Nor me, either,” his friend interposed hurriedly.  “I don’t worry about anything like that!  Still, if I was you I wouldn’t tell.  She’s only a girl, we got to remember.”

“Yes,” said Herbert.  “That’s the way I look at it, Henry; and the way I look at it is just simply this:  long as she is a girl, why, simply let her go.  You can’t tell what she’d do, and so what’s the use to go and tell on a girl?”

“That’s the way I look at it,” Henry agreed.  “What’s the use?  If I was in your place, I’d act just the same way you do.”

“Well,” said Herbert, “I guess I better go on in the house, Henry.  It’s a good while after dark.”