“This is my friend Burnett, Aunt Mary,” her nephew roared. “You must excuse his not bowing lower, but you know he broke his collarbone recently.” Aunt Mary shook hands warmly; she knew all about the ribs and the collarbone, because they had formed big items in the testimony which had momentarily and as momentously relegated Jack to the comradeship of the devil himself, in her eyes. However, she recalled them merely as facts now—not at all in a disagreeable way—and gave Burnett an extra squeeze of good-fellowship, as she said: “You had a narrow escape, young man.” “I didn’t have any escape at all,” said Burnett. “The escape went down at the back, and I had to jump from a cornice.” “Burnett is going out to dine with us, Aunt Mary,” said Jack. “There’s so little he can eat on account of his ribs that he’s a good dinner guest for me.” Jack’s aunt felt vaguely uncomfortable over this allusion to her grand-nephew’s circumstances, and coughed in slight embarrassment. Burnett opened the door, and the carriage lamp shone below. (Is there ever anything more delightfully suggestive than a carriage lamp shining down below?) They took her down and put her in, and the carriage rolled away. It was that June when “Bedelia” covered nearly the whole of the political horizon; it was the date of June when West Point, Vassar, the Blue, the Red, the Black and Yellow and every known device for getting rid of young and growing-up America are all cast loose at once on our fair land. The streets were a scene of glorious confusion, and but for Aunt Mary no considerations could have kept Burnett’s collarbone and Jack’s melancholia cooped up in a closed carriage. As it was, they were both fidgeting like two youthful Uncle Sams in a European railway coupé, when the latter suddenly exclaimed: “Here we are!” and threw open the door as he spoke. Then he got out and Burnett got out and between them they got Aunt Mary out. Aunt Mary regarded the awning and carpet and general glitter with a more or less appalled gaze. “Looks like—” she began; and was interrupted by a voice at her side: “Hello, Jack!” “Hello, Clover!” She turned and saw him of the pale mustache whom we once met in Mrs. Rosscott’s drawing room. He was in no wise altered since that occasion except that his attire was slightly more resplendent and he had on a silk hat. Jack shook hands warmly and then he turned to his relative. “Aunt Mary, this is my friend Clover; he’s often heard me speak of you.” “Glad to meet you, Mr. Rover,” said Aunt Mary, cordially, and she, too, shook hands with that cordiality that flourishes beyond city limits. Her nephew bent over her ear-trumpet. “Clover!” he howled, with all the strength he owned. “I heard before,” said Aunt Mary, somewhat coldly. “Come on and dine with us, Clover,” said Jack; “that’ll make four.” (By the way, isn’t it odd how many people ask their friends to dinner for the simple reason that, arithmetically considered, each counts as one!)