“That,” said Mrs. Baron “is your mean way of reminding me of what happened just a little while ago!” “Oh, no, mother! But she’s such a joyous little thing! I think she’ll like us all the better for seeing other people once in a while.” Mrs. Baron gazed at her son silently, her face darkening. He realized that her mind was filled with scorn, with resistance, with misgivings. “And I suppose,” she said, “that everything in their house is the newest and brightest and costliest!” She enumerated these qualities as if she were pointing out so many of the cardinal sins. Baron pretended not to understand. “They live nicely,” he said. “But as far as Bonnie May is concerned, I don’t think you need fear that the things the Thornburgs have will give them any advantage over us.” “Well, I don’t want her to go,” declared Mrs. Baron. Baron was standing in indecision when, happily, there was an interruption. The front door closed rather noisily, as it did when Mrs. Shepard was not in a very good humor, and there was the sound of Baggot’s voice in the hall. Baron groaned. He had forgotten about Baggot. He went out into the hall and confronted the playwright apologetically. “I’d really forgotten,” he began, but Baggot cut him short. “It’s all right,” remarked that young man. “Come on up to the library. I needn’t keep you long. But it’s simply necessary--” He was leading the way up-stairs as if he were in his own house. “Look here, Baggot,” remonstrated Baron, “I’ve got to go out to-night, in half an hour--in fifteen minutes. You’ll have to come back some other night.” “Where you going?” Baron gasped at the man’s rudeness. “I’ve got to review a play, out at----” “Fine! I’ll go with you!” Baron sank into a chair. There really wasn’t any reason why Baggot shouldn’t go with him. “But I’m going on the street-car,” he explained. “We couldn’t read a play----” “It’s not ready to be read, most of it. I’ve only got a couple of acts and the scenario. But there are certain things....” He pulled his chair closer to Baron’s and began an eager discussion of his play. Time passed, and Flora appeared in the doorway. Her eyes were inscrutable. “Mother wishes to see you before you go out,” she said. “Will she come up here?” pleaded Baron. He wanted to hide behind Baggot and escape a further scolding. “I’ll ask her,” replied Flora. Baggot, leaning forward and speaking with great intensity, continued on the subject which obsessed him. Time flew, and Baron found himself nervously jerking out his watch. Then there was a faint rustle of dresses out in the sitting-room. Mrs. Baron appeared in the doorway. She was dressed with all the exquisite, subtle attention to detail which never failed to make Baron proud of her. He took in the quiet, old-fashioned jewelry, sparingly displayed; the softened dignity of costume; the fine severity of her beautiful hair. Surely she was every inch a gentlewoman of whom any son might be proud.