The relationship between Charlotte, Lottie, and Charley is a simple one, really, though having, perhaps, an intricate look to the outsider. Great-aunt, niece, grand-niece: it was understood readily enough in Chicago's South Side, just as it was understood that no one ever called Lottie "Charlotte," or Charley "Lottie," though any of the three might be designated as "one of the Thrift girls." The Thrifts had been Chicago South Siders since that September in 1836 when Isaac Thrift had traveled tediously by rail, Sound steamer, river boat, canal boat, lake ship, and horse wagon from his native New York State to the unkempt prairie settlement on the banks of the sluggish stream that the Pottawatamie Indians called Che-ca-gou. Their reason for having thus named a city after the homely garlic plant was plain enough whenever the breeze came pungently from the prairies instead of from Lake Michigan. Right here is the start of Aunt Charlotte. And yet the temptation is almost irresistible to brush rudely past her and to hurry on to Lottie Payson, who is herself hurrying on home through the slate and salmon-pink Chicago sunset after what is known on the South Side as "spending the afternoon." An exhilarating but breathless business--this catching up with Lottie; Lottie of the fine straight back, the short sturdy legs, the sensible shoes, the well-tailored suit and the elfish exterior. All these items contributed to the facility with which she put the long Chicago blocks behind her--all, that is, except the last. An unwed woman of thirty-odd is not supposed to possess an elfish exterior; she is expected to be well-balanced and matter-of-fact and practical. Lottie knew this and usually managed to keep the imp pretty well concealed. Yet she so often felt sixteen and utterly irresponsible that she had to take brisk walks along the lake front on blustery days, when the spray stung your cheeks; or out Bryn Mawr way or even to Beverly Hills where dwellings were sparse and one could take off one's hat and venture to skip, furtively, without being eyed askance. This was supposed to help work off the feeling--not that Lottie wanted to work it off. She liked it. But you can't act Peter Pannish at thirty-two without causing a good deal of action among conservative eyebrows. Lottie's mother, Mrs. Carrie Payson, would have been terribly distressed at the thought of South Side eyebrows elevated against a member of her household. Sixty-six years of a full life had taught Mrs. Carrie Payson little about the chemistry of existence. Else she must have known how inevitably a disastrous explosion follows the bottling up of the Lotties of this world.