“I’ll take Billy home,” Clarence said heavily.

By this time Rachael was so exquisitely conscious of watching eyes and listening ears, so agonized over the realization that the fuss Clarence Breckenridge made at the Whittakers’ over Joe Pickering would be handed down, a precious tradition, over every tea and dinner table for weeks to come, so miserably aware that a dozen persons, at least, among the audience were finding in this scene welcome confirmation of all the odds and ends of gossip that were floating about concerning Billy, that she would have consented blindly to any arrangement that might terminate the episode.

It was not the first time that Clarence had made himself ridiculous and his family conspicuous when not quite himself.  At almost every tea party and at every dance and dinner at least one of the guests similarly distinguished himself.  Rachael knew that there would be no blame in her friends’ minds, but she hated their laughter.

“Do that, then,” she agreed quickly.  “Greg, will bring me!”

“By George,” said Clarence darkly to his hostess, “I’d be a long time doing that to you, Gertrude!  If you had a daughter—­”

“My dear Clarence, your daughter is old enough to know her own mind!” Mrs. Whittaker said impatiently.

“And you’re only making me conspicuous for something that’s entirely in your own brain!” blazed Billy.  As usual, her influence over her father was instantaneous.

“Because I love you, you know that,” he said meekly.  “I—­I may be too careful, Billy.  But—­”

“Nonsense!” said Billy in a nervous undertone close to tears.  “If you loved me you’d have some consideration for me!”

“When I say a thing, don’t you say it’s nonsense,” Clarence said with heavy fatherly dignity.  “I’ll tell you why—­because I won’t stand for it!”

“Oh, aren’t they hopeless!” Mrs. Whittaker asked with an indulgent laugh and a glance for Rachael.

“Well, I won’t be taken home like a bad child!” flamed Billy.

“I’d like to bump both your silly heads together,” Rachael exclaimed, steering them toward the porch.  “Yes, you bring the car around, Kent,” she added to one of the onlookers in an urgent aside.  “Come on, Bill? get in.  Get in, Clarence!  Don’t be an utter fool—­”

In another moment it was settled.  Billy, looking fretty and sulky, said:  “Good-bye, Aunt Gertrude!  I’m sorry for this, but it’s not my fault!” Frank Whittaker almost bodily lifted his somewhat befuddled guest into the car, the door of the runabout went home with a bang.  Billy snatched the wheel, and Clarence, with an attempt at a martyred expression, sank back in his seat.  The car rocked out of sight, and was gone.

Rachael, in silent dignity, turned about on the wide brick steps to reenter the house.  Where there had been a dozen interested faces a moment ago there was no one now except Gertrude Whittaker, whose expression betrayed her as tactfully divided between unconcern and sympathy, and Frank Whittaker, who was looking thoughtfully at the cloudless spring sky as one anticipating a change of weather.