Thurley had led the way inside the barn and settled herself on a bench. “How is June Myers and Josie Donaldson—see, I haven’t forgotten their names—and—Lorraine—and Dan?” she tried to say easily. Ali Baba glanced at her shrewdly. “Oh, June is the same little whiffet she always was and Josie is tryin’ to write a play; she’ll come to see you, don’t never worry.... We got a new kind of fool here—Owen Pringle; he has an art store and when he heard you was comin’, he sent to town for photographs of you—I didn’t know you could buy ’em right out—and he wants you to autograph ’em and then he’ll sell ’em—don’t you write a stroke of the pen—and his clerk, Cora Spooner—oh, we got a right good stock of pests on hand. I tell you, Thurley, things ain’t like they used to be.” “You didn’t say about—Dan,” Thurley urged, wondering why she trembled. “Fine—business growing. Was you scared the first time you come out on the stage?” “Not much. How are all the home folks, that’s what I want to know.” Ali Baba lit his pipe in democratic fashion. “All up to snuff, fools included ... goin’ to sing in meetin’?” “If I’m asked.” “Well, for land’s sake and Mrs. Davis,” he commanded, “sing somethin’ with a regular tune. I can’t go these songs that slide all over and back again afore a feller gets his foot to tappin’ on time.... Guess you learned to sing in Eyetalian from what you write Betsey?” “Yes.” He snorted disapproval. To his mind, as to the majority of village minds, there was no more object in discarding one’s coherent language to speak another than to shave off one’s hair and adopt a wig. “How is Lorraine?” Thurley studied the barn floor. “Too good to be true.” Ali Baba stood up and started to examine an old strap. “Her pa is prouder of her every minnit ... she’s made Dan a fine wife—had me up for supper and treated me as fine as silk.... Dan’s a great lad.” He became engrossed in opening the buckle. Thurley slipped away. Later, Ali Baba told Betsey, “Opery singers or no opery singers, women is all alike. If they give a fellow the mitten, they just can’t help comin’ back to see how he’s wearin’ it!” Dan was in South Wales the day Thurley arrived. When he returned to the Corners a week later, the town was chattering with new gusto, but he learned the news from Lorraine herself,—from Lorraine, who had been trying to gain courage enough to call on Thurley and blot out memories of that hidden magazine and the unproved yet strong impression that Dan had not confined himself to magazine pictures of Thurley. Just wherein lay his infidelity she did not know; she shrank as do women of her makeup from ever discovering! Dan came in buoyantly to waltz her around as was his custom, telling of his success with this man and that and plans for the branch store. “What’s wrong?” he asked, realizing that she was not dimpling with happiness and nodding approbation at every sentence he spoke.