Katie was a true woman. Such do not at once crown the victor in the tourney for their favour. Pity comes first. The victor must wait for his own. It will come to him. She flew to the vanquished champion and comforted him, ministering to his bruises. Holcombe stood, serene and smiling, without jealousy. "Tomorrow," he said to Katie, with head erect and beaming eyes. "Tomorrow, if you like," answered Katie. Holcombe minced his precarious way up the ragged hill among the obsolete tinware. His car came along aglitter with electric lights and jammed with passengers. He jumped to the rear platform and stood there. At his side he found Weatherly, a friend and neighbour, who had also built a house in the suburbs, a few squares from his own. "Hello, Holcombe," yelled Weatherly, above the crash of the car. "Been looking over some real estate, out here? How're Mrs. Holcombe and the young H's?" "First rate," shouted Holcombe, "when I left home this morning. How's the family with you?" "Only so-so. Usual suburban troubles. Servants won't stay so far out; tradesmen object to delivering goods in the country; cars break down, etc. What's pleasing you so? Made a lucky deal today?" Holcombe's face wore an ecstatic look. He was fingering a little scratch on his chin with one hand. He leaned his head towards Weatherly's ear. "Say, Bob, do you remember that Irish girl, Katie Flynn, that was with the Spaffords so long a time?" "I've heard of her," said Weatherly. "They say she stayed a year with them without a single day off. But I don't believe any fairy story like that." "'Twas a fact. Well, I engaged her today for a cook. She's going out to the house tomorrow." "Confound you for a lucky dog," shouted Weatherly, with envy in his tones and his heart, "and you live four blocks further out than we do!"