Promptly at six Mr. Barker appeared for his appointment. He bespoke the last word and epilogue in sartorial perfection--his suit was a trifle too brown and a trifle too creased and his carnation a bit too large, but he radiated good cheer and perfume. Miss Ethyl nudged Miss Gertrude excitedly. "Pipe the rig, Gert; he makes you look like a hole in a doughnut." He entered, suave as oil. "Well, sis, ready?" "Oh, Mr. Barker, you're all dressed up--and look at me. I--" "Ah-h-h, how do you like it? Some class, eh? Guess your Uncle Fuller ain't some hit--brand-new gear from tonneau to rear wheels." Mr. Barker circumvolved on one heel, holding his coat-tails apart. "I blew me right fer this outfit; but it's woith the money, sis." "If I had known I'd have gone home and dressed up, too." "Well, whatta you know about that?" exclaimed Mr. Barker, observing her up and down. "That there shroud you're wearing is as classy as anything I've seen up in the lobby or any place else, and I've been all round the woild some, too. I know the real thing from the seconds every time." Miss Gertrude worked into her gloves. "I guess it is more becoming for a girl like me to go plainly." "Believe me, kiddo"--Mr. Barker placed his hand blinker-fashion against the side of his mouth, and his lips took on an oblique slant--"take it from me, kiddo, when it comes to real feet-on-the-fender comfort, a nineteen-fifty suit with a extry pair of pants thrown in can make this rig feel like a busted tire." "Well, Mr. Barker, I'm ready if you are." He swung one arm akimbo with an outward circular movement, clicked his heels together, and straightened his shoulders until his speckled white vest swelled. "Hitch on, sis, and let's show Broadway we're in town!" Gertrude took a pinch of sleeve between her gloved fingers; they fell into step. At the door she turned and nodded over one shoulder. "Good night, Ethyl dear," she said, a trifle too sweetly. A huge mahogany-colored touring-car caparisoned in nickel and upholstered in darker red panted and chugged at the Broadway curb. Mr. Barker helped her into the front seat, swung himself behind the steering-wheel, covered them over with a striped rug, and turned his shining monster into the flux of Broadway. Miss Gertrude leaned her head back against the upholstery and breathed a deep-seated, satisfied sigh. "This," she said, "is what I call living." Mr. Barker grinned and let out five miles more to the hour. "I guess this ain't got the Sixth Avenue 'L' skinned a mile!" "Two miles," she said. "Honest, sis, I could be arrested for what I think of the 'L.'" "I know the furnishing of every third-floor front on the line," she replied, with a dreary attempt at jocoseness. "Never mind, kiddo, I've got my eye on you," he sang, quoting from a street song of the hour. They sped on silently, the wind singing in their ears. "Want the shield up?" "The what?" "The glass front." "No, thank you, Mr. Barker; this air is good."