“Excuse me, I thought he said Missus,” floundered Mr. Sikes, a trifle dashed. “He did. I am Mrs. Flame.” “Er—ahem! Oh, I see. Widow.” “In a detached sort of way.” This was beyond Mr. Sikes. “In the war, I suppose.” “Do I look like a woman who lost a husband in the war, Mr. Sikes?” “You don’t look like you’d lost one anywhere,” said he, beginning to feel a trifle nettled. “You certainly don’t look like a widow to me.” “What do I look like to you?” she inquired amiably. “You look as if it wouldn’t distress you very much if I was to ask how long he’s been dead,” was his unexpected reply. She flushed. “A very good answer to a very stupid question,” said she. “He isn’t dead. He is very much alive. He didn’t go to the war. I am one of those horrible, unspeakable things known as a grass widow, Mr. Sikes.” “As I was saying,” he began after he had taken as much as thirty seconds to recover from the shock of this disclosure, “it wouldn’t surprise me if we got the storm inside of ten or fifteen minutes. I guess I’ll be moving along. Glad to have met you, Mrs.—” “Do wait,” she cried. “Oliver won’t be a minute. We’ll take you wherever you wish to go, Mr. Sikes.” “No, I won’t wait,” said he firmly. “But before I go, I want to—er—as I was saying, it ain’t any of my business—you understand that, don’t you?—er—I was just thinking it’s only fair to tell you that Oliver is—er—what you might call engaged, Mrs. Flame. Generally speaking, I mean.” “I see,” said she brightly. “And you want to warn me not to make a fool of myself, is that it? It’s awfully kind of you.” Mr. Sikes was a poor dissembler. “Well, I was thinking more about Oliver making a fool of himself,” said he bluntly. “But why, Mr. Sikes, do you keep all this a secret from him?” she cried, biting her lip to keep from laughing. “I think you ought to tell him he is engaged and not keep the poor boy in suspense. He hasn’t the remotest inkling of it.” “Don’t you fool yourself,” said he stoutly. “And who is the fortunate young lady?” “We ain’t quite ready to make it public yet,” said Mr. Sikes, casting a sharp look toward the house and cocking his ear for sounds of Oliver’s footsteps on the stairs. “Which reminds me,” he went on hurriedly, lowering his voice, “I guess you’d better not mention it to him.” “I sha’n’t, Mr. Sikes, if it will make you feel any more comfortable. But at least you can tell me this. Does the young lady know she is engaged?” He had got in deeper than he intended. “Did I say she was young?” he demanded craftily, trying to recall just how far he had already committed himself. “No, siree! You bet I didn’t. I’m too smart for that.” “But does she know she is engaged?” persisted this disconcerting young woman. “Not what you would call exactly,” he confessed, lamely. “I see. You are keeping it a secret from both of them.” He heard Oliver in the hall, speaking to Mrs. Grimes. It was no time to choose words, so he blurted out: