“You’ve not changed much, Martie—­except putting up your hair.  I mean it as a compliment!” said Rodney, eagerly, in his ready, boyish voice.

“You’ve changed a good deal; and I mean that as a compliment, too!” Martie returned, with her deep laugh.

His own broke out in answer.  He thought her delightful.  The creamy skin, the burnished hair that was fanned into an aureole under her shabby hat, the generous figure with its young curves, had helped to bring about in Rodney Parker a sweet, irrational surrender of reason.  He had never been a reasonable boy.  He knew, of course, that Martie Monroe was not in his sisters’ set, although she was a perfectly nice girl, and to be respected.  Martie was neither one thing nor the other.  With Grace, indeed, who was frankly beneath the Parkers’ notice, he might have had almost any sort of affair; even one of those affairs of which May and Ida must properly seem unaware.  He might have flirted with Grace, have taken her about and given her presents, in absolute safety.  Grace would have guessed him to be only amusing himself, and even confident Rodney, his mother’s favourite and baby, would never have attempted to bring Grace Hawkes home as his sisters’ equal.

But with Martie there was a great difference.  The Monroes had been going down slowly but steadily in the social scale, yet they were Monroes, after all.  Lydia Monroe had been almost engaged to Clifford Frost, years ago, and still, at all public affairs, the Monroes, the Parkers, and the Frosts met as old friends and equals.  Indeed, the Parker girls and Florence Frost had been known to ask the girls’ only brother, Leonard Monroe, to their parties, young as he was, men being very scarce in Monroe, and Leonard, although his sisters were not asked, had gone.

So that when Rodney Parker stopped Martie Monroe on the way home, and fell to flattering and teasing her, and walked beside her to the bridge, he quite innocently plunged himself into social hot water, and laid a disturbing touch upon the smooth surface of the girl’s life.

They talked of trivialities, laughing much.  Rodney asked her if she remembered the dreadful day when they had been sent up to apologize to the French teacher, and Martie said, “Mais oui.’” and thrilled at the little intimate memory of disgrace shared.

“And are you still such a little devil, Martie?” he asked, bringing his head close to hers.

“That I’ll leave you to find out, Rod!” she said laughingly.

“Well—­that’s one of the things I’m back here to find out!” he answered gaily.

Yes, he was back to stay; he was to go into the Bank.  He confidently expected to die of the shock and Martie must help him bear it.  Martie promised to open an account.  His Dad might let him have a car, if he behaved himself; did Martie like automobiles?  Martie knew very little about them, but was sure she could honk the horn.  Very well; Martie should come along and honk the horn.