“Nonsense,” returned Mrs. Bruce curtly. “If I didn’t have such good taste, of course I shouldn’t venture to buy ties for a man; but even as a girl I was considered to have the most perfect taste. I was famous for it, and I’m sure, Irving, I’ve tried to instill it into you.” “You have, Madama,” he returned soothingly, “and I think I’m a credit to you. Now come, I’m prepared to maintain that I’ve caught the infection, and that my taste is perfect, too.” He stifled a yawn. “To prove it, I’ll throw down the bone of contention, collar and all, and get into a sweater. I’m going to hunt up Hiram before lunch and swap lies for a spell.” So speaking the young man stepped out on the porch, picked up his suit-case, and walked through the spreading cottage until he came to his room, where Betsy was whisking things into readiness for his occupancy. “There! Do you smell?” she asked, sniffing disapprovingly; “just like a cellar?” “No,” he returned plaintively, “I don’t think I do.” “I didn’t say do _you_; I say, don’t _it_,” snapped Betsy, in no mood for badinage. “If you hadn’t come so soon, I’d have had it aired out. I’d like to shake Mrs. Pogram till her teeth chatter.” Irving set down his suit-case. “As I remember, Mrs. Pogram’s teeth aren’t calculated to chatter. They don’t—what is the technical term now?” Betsy grunted. “I do feel ashamed to have you come into such a comfortless place, Mr. Irving.” “I’d rather be here, Betsy, even if I have to wear a clothes-pin on my nose while unmaking my toilet. I can sleep on the porch, you know. You think—eh, Betsy, you think there’s no use trying to side-step the Yellowstone?” “We’re as good as there,” returned Betsy sententiously. “Mrs. Bruce says that when once you get into that bank, she might as well count on the wind that blows as you taking a vacation at any stated time; and you know it’s got to be a stated time for the Yellowstone.” Irving sighed. “I hope we know our place, Betsy,” he returned. CHAPTER IV MRS. POGRAM CONFIDES HALF an hour afterward Mrs. Pogram, unconscious of Miss Foster’s yearning to administer to her portly person a vigorous movement cure, walked leisurely up the village street. From one hand depended a long slender package which she held away from her black shawl by a string loop around her forefinger. A merry whistling attracted her, and she perceived coming along the walk, at a swinging gait, a bareheaded young man in a sweater. In a few days the streets of the village would be largely populated by girls and men, all with an aversion to hats and sleeves. Mrs. Pogram was familiar with the type, and noted that this care-free person was an advance guard proving that the summer was here. She eyed him, however, with lack-lustre eyes until he stopped suddenly before her. “You don’t know me,” he said, taking his hands out of his pockets. The corners of Mrs. Pogram’s lips drew down and her chin drew in.