Miss Louise Varney did not seem over-delighted at the spectacle of a guest in the party as she came running out, backed by the vigilant dowager figure of Mrs. Varney, who never let her daughter out of her charge. But whatever irritation she might have felt she concealed under a charming smile, while Mrs. Varney, accustomed to swinging in solitary dignity in the back seat, welcomed him with genuine enthusiasm. "Well, Mr. Crocker, isn't this grand! You and me can sit here flirting on the back seat and let them whisper sweet nothings." She tapped him on the arm, saying in a half voice: "Say, they certainly are a good looking team now, ain't they?" The old Grenadier, as she was affectionately termed by her daughter's admirers, was out in her war paint, dressed like a debutante, fatly complacent and smiling with the prospect of a delicious lunch at the end of the drive. "Say, I think Fred's the sweetest feller," she began, beaming on Bojo, "and so smart too. Louise says he could make a forchin in vaudeville. I think he's much cleverer than that Pinkle feller who gets two-fifty a week for giving imitations on the pianner. Why haven't you been around, Mr. Crocker?" She nudged him again, her maternal gaze fondly fixed on her daughter. "Isn't she a dream in that cute little hat? My Lord, I should think all the men would be just crazy about her." "Most of them are, I should say," said Bojo, and, smiling, he nodded in the direction of Fred DeLancy, who was at that moment in the throes of a difficult explanation. Mrs. Varney gave a huge sigh and proceeded confidentially. "'Course Louise's got a great future, every one says, and vaudeville does pay high when you get to be a top notcher; but, my sakes, Mr. Crocker, money isn't everything in this world, as I often told her--" "Mother, be quiet--you're talking too much," said Miss Louise Varney abruptly, whose alert little ear was always trained for maternal indiscretions. Mrs. Varney, as was her habit, withdrew into an attitude of sulky aloofness, not to relax until they were cozily ensconced at a corner table in a wayside inn for luncheon. By this time Miss Varney had evidently decided to accept the protestations of DeLancy, and peace having been declared and the old Grenadier mollified by her favorite broiled lobster and a carafe of beer, the party proceeded gaily. Fred DeLancy, in defiance of Bojo's presence, beaming and fascinated, exchanged confidential whispers and smiles with the girl which each fondly believed unperceived. "Good Lord," thought Bojo to himself, now quite alarmed, "this is a pickle! He's in for it fair this time and no mistake. She can have him any time she wants to. Of course she thinks he's loaded with diamonds." Mr. Fred's attitude, in fact, would have deceived a princess of the royal blood.