"Oh, you!" retorted Orville, heavily jocular. "You're jealous." He rubbed his chin ruefully. "Wait till I've shaved, Beck, and I'll give you a kiss to make you happy." "Orville!" But Celia's bearing was again that of the successful matron--the fortunate beloved woman. Beck Schaefer took the others home in her electric. Lottie, seized with a sudden distaste for the glittering enamelled box elected to walk, though she knew it would mean being late. "Figger?" Beck Schaefer asked, settling her own plump person in the driver's seat. "Air," Lottie answered, not altogether truthfully; and drew a long breath. She turned away from the curb. The electric trundled richly off, its plate glass windows filled with snugly tailored shoulders, furs, white gloves, vivid hats. Lottie held one hand high in farewell, palm, out, as the glittering vehicle sped silently away, lurched fatly around a corner and was gone. CHAPTER VII Lottie was late. Shockingly late. Even though, tardily conscience-stricken, she had deserted walk, sunset, and lake mist for a crowded and creeping Indiana Avenue car at Forty-seventh Street, she was unforgivably late, according to her mother's stern standards. This was Friday night. Every Friday night Henry, Belle, and Charley Kemp took dinner with the Paysons in the old house on Prairie Avenue. Every Friday night. No matter what else the Kemps might prefer to do on that night, they didn't do it. Each Friday morning Belle Kemp would say to her husband, "This is Friday, Henry. We're having dinner at mama's, remember." "I might have to work to-night, Belle. We're taking inventory this week." "Henry, you _know_ how mama feels about Friday dinner." "M-hmph," Henry would grunt; and make a mental note about an extra supply of cigars for the evening. His favorite nightmare was that in which he might slap his left-hand vest pocket only to find it empty of cigars at 8:30 on a Friday evening at Mother Payson's. The weekly gathering was a tradition meaninglessly maintained. The two families saw quite enough of one another without it. Mrs. Payson was always "running over to Belle's for a minute." But these Friday dinners had started before Charley was born. Now they constituted an iron-clad custom. Mrs. Payson called it "keeping up the family life." Lottie, hospitable by nature, welcomed dinner guests; but she rather dreaded these Friday nights. There was so little of spontaneity about them, and so much of family frankness. Some time during the evening Belle would say, "Lottie, that dress is at least two inches too long. No wonder you never look smart. Your clothes are always so ladylike."