But then Sally was born devoid of a social sense, mused Martie, walking home.  What would life be without it—­she wondered.  No affectations, no barriers, no pretenses—­

“Flout me not, Sweet!” said some one at her side.  She looked up into the beaming eyes of Wallace Bannister.  “Don’t you remember me—­I’m the city feller that came here breakin’ all hearts awhile back!”

“You idiot!” Martie laughed, too.  “I thought you were miles away!”

“Well, judging by your expression, darling, you were miles away, too,” said the irrepressible Wallace.  “How are you, Brunhilde?  Ich liebe dich!  Yes’m, we ought to be miles away, but to tell you the honest truth, the season is simply rotten here on the coast.  We’ve bust up, for the moment, but dry those tears.  Here’s my contract for seven weeks in San Francisco—­seven plays.  Sixty bones per week; pretty neat, what?  We begin rehearsing in July, open August eighth, and if it’s a go, go on indefinitely.  The Cluetts and I are in this--the rest of the company’s gone flooey.  Meanwhile, I have three weeks to wait, and I’m staying with my aunt in Pittsville studying like mad.”

“And what are you doing in Monroe?” Martie said contentedly, as they wandered along.

“I came here a week ago to change some shoes,” said Wallace, “and I saw you.  So to-day I came and made you a formal call.”

“You did not!” Martie ejaculated, laughing.

“Why didn’t I?  I fell down eleven steps into your garden, knocked on the front door, knocked on the side door, talked to some one called ‘Ma,’ talked to some one called ‘Lydia,’ and learned that Miss Martha Brunhilde Monroe was out for a sashay.  There!”

“Well—­for goodness sake!” Martie was conscious of flushing.  From that second she grew a little self-conscious.  He was a funny creature.  He would have been unusually handsome, she thought, if it were not for a certain largeness—­it was not quite coarseness—­of feature.  He would have been extraordinarily charming, decided Martie, but for that same quality in his manner; recklessness, carelessness.  She knew he was not always telling the truth; these honours, these affairs, these fascinating escapades were not all his own.  His exaggerated expressions of affection for herself were only a part of this ebullient sense of romance.  But he was amusing.

“Bon soir, papillon!” he said at her gate.  “How about a meet to-morrow?  Tie a pink scarf to thy casement if thy jailer sleeps.  Seriously, leave us meet, kid.  Leave us go inter Bonestell’s with the crowd—­watto?  I’ll wait for youse outside the Library at three.”

“With the accent on the wait,” said Martie significantly.  But she did not think of Rodney that evening.  She thought of Sally and of Wallace Bannister.

Fortunately for her, it did not occur to her father to cross-examine her on any other event of the day except the circumstance that she had been seen walking with an unknown young man.  This was food for much advice.