“Down to the store.  Just had supper.”

“But Thursday ’s your night off.”

“Sure, but Pete went home.  His mother ’s supposed to be sick.  Gosh, these clerks you get nowadays—­overpay ’em and then they won’t work!”

“That’s tough, Dave.  You’ll have to work clear up till twelve, then.”

“Yup.  Better drop in and have a cigar, if you’re downtown.

“Well, I may, at that.  May have to go down and see Mrs. Champ Perry.  She’s ailing.  So long, Dave.”

Kennicott had not yet entered the house.  He was conscious that Carol was near him, that she was important, that he was afraid of her disapproval; but he was content to be alone.  When he had finished sprinkling he strolled into the house, up to the baby’s room, and cried to Hugh, “Story-time for the old man, eh?”

Carol was in a low chair, framed and haloed by the window behind her, an image in pale gold.  The baby curled in her lap, his head on her arm, listening with gravity while she sang from Gene Field: 

     ’Tis little Luddy-Dud in the morning—­
     ’Tis little Luddy-Dud at night: 
     And all day long
     ’Tis the same dear song
     Of that growing, crowing, knowing little sprite.

Kennicott was enchanted.

“Maud Dyer?  I should say not!”

When the current maid bawled up-stairs, “Supper on de table!” Kennicott was upon his back, flapping his hands in the earnest effort to be a seal, thrilled by the strength with which his son kicked him.  He slipped his arm about Carol’s shoulder; he went down to supper rejoicing that he was cleansed of perilous stuff.  While Carol was putting the baby to bed he sat on the front steps.  Nat Hicks, tailor and roue, came to sit beside him.  Between waves of his hand as he drove off mosquitos, Nat whispered, “Say, doc, you don’t feel like imagining you’re a bacheldore again, and coming out for a Time tonight, do you?”

“As how?”

“You know this new dressmaker, Mrs. Swiftwaite?—­swell dame with blondine hair?  Well, she’s a pretty good goer.  Me and Harry Haydock are going to take her and that fat wren that works in the Bon Ton—­nice kid, too—­on an auto ride tonight.  Maybe we’ll drive down to that farm Harry bought.  We’re taking some beer, and some of the smoothest rye you ever laid tongue to.  I’m not predicting none, but if we don’t have a picnic, I’ll miss my guess.”

“Go to it.  No skin off my ear, Nat.  Think I want to be fifth wheel in the coach?”

“No, but look here:  The little Swiftwaite has a friend with her from Winona, dandy looker and some gay bird, and Harry and me thought maybe you’d like to sneak off for one evening.”

“No—­no——­”

“Rats now, doc, forget your everlasting dignity.  You used to be a pretty good sport yourself, when you were foot-free.”

It may have been the fact that Mrs. Swiftwaite’s friend remained to Kennicott an ill-told rumor, it may have been Carol’s voice, wistful in the pallid evening as she sang to Hugh, it may have been natural and commendable virtue, but certainly he was positive: