“Well, well, Mrs. Bannister, how do you do!  I declare I haven’t seen much of you since you came back!  How’s that boy of yours?  Nice boy—­ nice little feller.”

“He’s well, thank you, Clifford; he’s never been ill.  And how’s your own pretty girl?” Martie smiled, using the little familiarity deliberately.

When he answered, with a father’s proud affection, he called her “Martie,” as she suspected he might.  She went to her point frankly.  Pa, she explained, was playing fast and loose with the town’s offer for the property.  The man opposite her frowned, nodded, and stared at the floor.

“You girls naturally feel—­” he nodded sympathetically.

“Lydia does.  But, Clifford, that’s just where I need your help.  I think it would be madness not to sell!”

“Madness not to?” It was not clear yet.  “Then you want to?”

She went over her ground patiently.  His face brightened with comprehension.

“I see!  Well, now, that puts a different face on it,” he said.  “Of course, I want the deal to go through,” he admitted, “and if you can talk your father over—­”

“That’s what I want you to do!” Martie assured him gaily.

He laughed in answer.

“He don’t pay any attention to me!” he confessed.  “I’s telling him only yes’day that it wasn’t good business to hang onto that piece.  I told—­”

“But Clifford,” she suggested, “I want you to take this tack.  I want you to tell him that the town has a sentiment about it—­the old Monroe place, you know.  Tell him that people feel it ought to be public property, and then, when he agrees, whip some sort of paper out of your pocket, and have him sign it then and there!”

Clifford Frost was not quick of thought, but he was shrewd, and his smile now was compounded of admiration for the scheme and the schemer alike.

“I declare you’re quite a business woman, Martie!” he said.  “It’s a pity Len hasn’t got it, too.  I b’lieve I can work your Pa that way; anyway, I’ll try it!  I supposed you girls were hanging on like grim death to that piece—­”

After this the conversation rambled pleasantly; presently, in the midst of a discussion of mortgages, he took one of the roses, and called her attention to it.  It had had some special care; Martie could honestly admire it.  Clifford told her to keep it, and her blue eyes met his friendly ones, behind the big glasses, as she pinned it on her blouse.

“I declare you’ve got quite a different look since you came back, Martie,” he said.  “You’re quite a New Yorker!  I said to Ruthie a while back, that there was a strange lady in town; I’d seen her with Mrs. Joe Hawkes.  ‘Why, Papa,’ she says, ‘that’s Mrs. Bannister!’ I assure you I could hardly believe it.  You’ve took off considerable flesh, haven’t you?”

“I’ve had my share,” Martie answered in the country phrase, with a smile and a sigh.