On the way over he's given me a description of his missin' parent; so I pikes up the steps, pushes past the garlic smells, and proceeds to inspect the groups around the little tables. What I'm lookin' for is a squatty old party with gray hair pasted down over her ears, and a waist like a bag of hay tied in the middle. She's supposed to be wearin' a string bonnet about the size of a saucer, with a bunch of faded velvet violets on top, a coral brooch at her neck, and either a black alpaca or a lavender sprigged grenadine. Most likely, too, she'll be doin' the shovel act with her knife. Well, there was a good many kinds of females scattered around the coffee stained tablecloths, but none that answers to these specifications. I was just gettin' ready to call off the search, when I gets my eye on a couple over in one corner. The gent was one of these studio Indians, with his hair tucked inside his collar. The old girl facin' him didn't have any Tonawanda look about her, though. She was what you might call a frosted pippin, a reg'lar dowager dazzler, like the pictures you see on fans. Her gray hair has been spliced out with store puffs until it looks like a weddin' cake; her hat is one of the new wash basin models, covered with pink roses that just matches the color of her cheeks; and her peek-a-poo lace dress fits her like it had been put onto her with a shoe horn. Sure, I wa'n't lookin' for any such party as this; but I can't help takin' a second squint. I notices what fine, gentle old eyes she has, and while I was doin' that I spots something else. Just under her chin is one of them antique coral pins. Course, it looked like a long shot, but I steps out to the door and motions Vincent to come in. "I expect we're way off the track," says I; "but I'd like to have you take a careless glance at the giddy old party over under the kummel sign in the corner; the one facin' this way--there." Vincent gives a jump at the first look. Then he starts for her full tilt, me trailin' along and whisperin' to him not to make any fool break unless he's dead sure. But there's no holdin' him back. She's so busy chattin' with the reformed Sioux in store clothes that she don't notice Vincent until he's right alongside, and just as she looks up he lets loose his indignation. "Why, grandmother!" says he. She don't seem so much jarred as you might think. She don't even drop the fork that she's usin' to twist up a gob of spaghetti on. All she does is to lift her eyebrows in a kind of annoyed way, and shoot a quick look at the copper tinted gent across the table. "There, there, Vincent?" says she. "Please don't grandmother me; at least, not in public." "But," says he, "you know that you are a----" "I admit nothing of the kind," says she. "I may be your mother; but as for being anybody's grandmother, that is an experience I know nothing about. Now please run along, Vincent, and don't bother."