“Damn Robert!” returned the other, under the usual impression of the deaf that his heartfelt expression was inaudible. As a matter of fact no one observed it in the confusion. Mrs. Bruce was absorbed in mounting to the coveted place with the driver. Irving offered to put Betsy up beside her; but Miss Foster declined. “Get right up there, Mr. Irving. I’m going in here behind you.” Meanwhile the two waitresses had obeyed a summons, and Rosalie with her head down and praying to be invisible hastened with her companion to the steps. Her prayer was answered, because all the party were too preoccupied to note the two girls who came swiftly by and entered the back seat of the stage. Moreover, at the same moment out from the door of the hotel came a young fellow in outing clothes and cap, who was greeted with well-bred rebuke by Mrs. Nixon, and a grunt of relief from the deaf gentleman, who put Miss Maynard into the seat and followed her. “Well, I told you not to bring me, didn’t I?” responded Robert. His voice was loud and cheery, and had, in his more gleeful moments, a trick of breaking into a high register with a joyous inflection which endeared him to those who enjoyed his conversation. He was clean, gay, and young; but if he possessed any beauty it was of the mind; and among his acquaintance there was a wide difference of opinion on this point. While his mother voiced her dignified rebuke, his quick eye glanced along the stage to take in its possibilities. Rosalie was shrunk into the further corner of her seat, directly behind the Nixon party, and Miss Hickey, meeting his glance, chewed vigorously while lifting her head with an elegant air of impersonality. In Robert’s own mental vernacular he “passed up the gum.” The driver’s seat was full, the alternative was the one in front of his mother’s party, where Betsy Foster reigned alone. He stepped in beside her while he spoke to his mother. “I told you not to bring me,” he declared again, cheerfully. “I told you I’d be more trouble than I was worth.” “You actually detained the stage, dear. I was about to send your uncle Henry to find you.” Quick as a flash the culprit snatched the device which aided the deaf gentleman’s hearing, and shrieked across it above the clatter of the stage. “Don’t you ever do it, Uncle Henry. Rise up and declare your rights. What if I am lost?” “That’s what I say,” responded the older man, equably. “Small loss. One of my rights is not to have my ear-drums cracked. They’re sufficiently nicked already.” He took back the rubber disk with decision. Irving had turned around during this interchange and looked down from his high perch. “Hello, Nixie,” he said. Robert leaned forward with alacrity, and took the down-stretched hand. “_Et tu, Brute?_” he cried, his voice breaking joyously. Betsy stole the first glance at her companion. His unfeigned gladness to see her idol was in his favor.