“Noon, eh? Did you see me escorting her at the Riverside show?” “No,” replied Mrs. Nixon lugubriously. “I was too much engaged in taking care of your Uncle Henry.” Robert straightened up and threw his head back for a hearty laugh. “The Yellowstone is growing exciting,” he said. “Heavers to right of us, heiresses to left of us. Wayward brothers, and,” striking his breast triumphantly, “wise sons!” “Yes, Robert. You’ve done very well, I must say.” “Miss Maynard,—you observe that I speak the name with new and due reverence,—the heiress, I say, went to school with Hebe the heaver.” “Is it possible?” returned Mrs. Nixon coldly. “Did—did the waitress claim acquaintance?” “Not a bit of it,” rejoined Robert cheerfully. “Cousin turned the heiress down.” “Robert, what _are_ you talking about?” “Why, you heard Uncle Henry say we were related.” Mrs. Nixon made an exclamation. “Why must men of all ages lose their wits at sight of a pretty face?” she inquired of the ceiling. “The conundrum of the ages, mamma, and I’m young yet, so I can’t tell you; but if you hadn’t been more of a sister than a mother you’d have watched my foresighted behavior. To tell the truth, when you glared at Hebe there by the river, I thought she was going to cry; so when Brute’s mother buttonholed him and you took Uncle Henry by the ear, I sought refuge with the stenographer, though the heaver looked pretty enough to eat. I knew Betsy would look after her.” “They were at school together?” repeated Mrs. Nixon, wondering. “Sure as you’re a foot high; and when the now valuable Miss Maynard accosted Hebe at the Fountain House, the lovely heaver begged her to forget it. There’s a story attached to her. Brute told me—” “Yes,” interrupted Mrs. Nixon impatiently. “Mrs. Bruce told me what she had done for her. I dare say she has found her right place. There is no need of making a fuss over her.” Robert shook his finger at the speaker. “Careful, careful, mother. Supposing you should waken to-morrow morning and find that the heaver’s uncle in India had passed to his fathers, and that Miss Vincent was likely to require the advice of an experienced chaperon.” Mrs. Nixon waved this nonsense aside with a gesture, and returned to the subject in hand. “I think the thing for me to do is to find Miss Maynard now, tell her that Mr. Derwent has informed me of her good fortune, and congratulate her.” Robert rubbed his hands together with a malevolent and gleeful laugh. “Can’t you hide me behind the screen and send for her?” he begged. Mrs. Nixon had risen and now drew herself up. “What, pray, do you think would be so amusing about it? Do you think your mother would be less than dignified?” “No, no, honey,” rejoined her irreverent son, forcibly taking her reluctant hands. “I was only thinking of witnessing a friendly interview between an icicle and a stalactite.” He chuckled again and clapped the maternal hands together, totally against the maternal will.