"What company?" said Daisy, a little puzzled. She had made no mention of her party to Jean. "Yon two bidin' down in the kitchen the now," Jean replied, regarding Daisy in a slow speculative way, as though searching for some characteristic she had perchance overlooked in forming her estimate of the girl; "a mon wha's breath smells of thae lozenges, and a thick-legged wench that rolls her eyes aboot. They askit for you, by your ain name, too. Did ye tell them to ca', or," Jean's tone grew sternly hopeful, "shall I send them packin'?" "I guess it's me they want," said Daisy, recognizing Masterman in Jean's description of the man. Then she added, meeting the elder woman's glance challengingly, "I'm going to a boxing-match, and to a--a little party--afterwards, with Nick Cluett the fighter." Somewhat to Daisy's surprise, Jean seemed to look less severe as she heard the host of the "little party" named. "Well," she said, after a moment, "I was just twa minds about lockin' ye in, lassie, and sending they people aboot their business; but if it's Nicky Cluett ye're gaun with, ye'll tak' no harm--that is, unless ye encourage him, an' then ye'll tak' no end o' harm, and it'll serve ye right. My cousin Jock Lauder--Baby Jock, they call him--kens Nick weel." "Is Baby Jock your cousin?" said Daisy, "why, I had a dance with him last night, out at the park. "Is that so, then?" Jean leaned forward with interest. "Jock's a fighter too, although he'd never let on, withoot ye speir him direct.... Well, gae along, then, to your pairty--but keep a sharp eye on yon person with the scentit breath. I'd no trust _him_ as far as I could cast him." The long red automobile that had been waiting near the sidewalk outside the Harrison gateway, answered to the electric starter with a tigerish snore and, as the clutch was thrown on, bore out the feline similitude with a four-yard leap that brought it diagonally out into rapid motion down the street. "Any good with the mitts?" asked Mr. Masterman jocularly, turning toward Daisy his globular face with its lightish eyebrows and large flexible lips, that rolled and curled like leaf-edges with perennial relish of the faculty of speech. "Aw, talk sense, Bob," smoothly intervened Miss Stella Yockley--she whom Jean had described as "a thick-legged wench that rolls her eyes aboot"--"Miss Nixon's a _lady_--can't you see! A perfect lady--huh?" And, as though to imply that this was a joke, from which Mr. Masterman was excluded, Miss Yockley, under cover of a hand raised to dab at her front hair, winked at Daisy.