"To-day--just now," says he. "I never dreamed she would develop into--er--a woman like that,--the way she looks at you, you know." "You don't need to describe it," says I. "That wa'n't a marker to the way she looked at Swifty and me. But wait! We'll hand her a jolt Saturday night." Steele groans. "I wish I could---- By George!" he explodes. "I'd forgotten Major Ben Cutter." "What about him?" says I. "An old friend," says J. Bayard. "He's landing Saturday, from Santa Marta. I haven't seen him for years,--been down there running a banana plantation, you know. He cabled up, and I'd promised to take him around that evening, dinner at the club, and----" "Ah, ditch it, J. B.!" says I. "No old-friend alibi goes in this case." "But, Shorty," he protests, "how can I----" "You can lug him along, can't you?" says I. "Make it a four-cornered affair. The more the merrier." "He's such a diffident, shy chap, though," goes on Steele, "and after five years in the bush----" "Oh, a dose of Mrs. Hollister will do him good," says I. "She won't mind. She'll be bein' bored. Just 'phone her and explain. And remind her when she's gettin' her costume that this ain't any church sociable we're attendin'." Honest, I was more leery on that point than about anything else; for you know how giddy they doll up at them joints, and while her taste in stained glass windows might be strictly up to date, when it comes to flossin' up for the Maison Maxixe--well, no gray-and-white, back-number regalia would do there. If we wa'n't shut out, we'd be guyed to death. So about seven-thirty Saturday night I was some chilly in the ankles. I'd called for J. Bayard at his hotel, and he'd shown up with the Major. No figment of the imagination, either, the Major. He's a big, husky, rich-colored party that's some imposin' and decorative in open-faced togs; quiet and shy actin', though, just as Steele had said. I sort of took to him, and we swaps friendly greetin's. "All aboard now," says I, "and we'll collect our widow." Which seems to startle the Major more or less. "I say, Bayard," he puts in, "you didn't tell me she was a widow, you know. Perhaps, after all, I'd best not----" "Ah, she ain't the net-wieldin' kind," says I soothin'. "She'll tell you all about her dear departed and the memorial window. About as gay as Trinity Church on Ash Wednesday, she is. Come along." Can you blame him, then, for glancin' reproachful at me when he sees what answers our call at the Lady Louise a few minutes later? I lets go of a few gasps myself; while J. Bayard--well, he just stares at her with his mouth open.