Leaving his cubby-hole behind the screen and taking the inevitable glass out of his eye, John Breezy waddled through the shop to the parlor to enjoy a cup of tea. It was good to see the new brightness and daintiness assumed by the whole of that little place since Lola had come back and put her touch upon everything. It was good also to break away from the mechanism of unhealthy watches for a quarter of an hour and get into contact with humanity that was cheerful and well. “Hurray!” he said, “what should I do without my cupper tea?” With one eye on the shop door and the other on the teapot, Mrs. Breezy presided at the chaotic table. The tea tray had cleared an opening among the heterogeneous mass of accumulation. It was the ritual of week-day afternoons, faithfully performed year in and year out,—and of late, since Lola had been helping in the shop, more frequently interrupted than ever before. Now that she had fallen into the steady habit of sitting behind the counter near the window, business had perked up noticeably and it was astonishing how many young men were discovering the need of safety-razor blades, Waterman’s fountain pens, silver cigarette cases, and the like. Was it astonishing? “Nice weather for Lola’s afternoon off,” said Breezy, emptying his cup into his saucer, cabman’s fashion. Tea cooled the sooner like that and went down with a more succulent sound. “Hampton Court again?” “Yes, dear,” replied Mrs. Breezy, “with Ernest. Wonderful how much better he looks since Lola came back,—cleaner, more self-respecting. He had another poem in the paper yesterday. Did you read it?” “Um. I scanned it over. Pretty good coming from behind a face like that. Somehow, I always think of a poet as a man with big eyes, a velvet coat, hair all over his face, who was born with a dictionary in his hand. Funny thing, breaking out in a lad like Ernest. Caused by the War, p’raps. It’s left a lot of queer things behind it. He’d make more money if he tried to turn out stories like Garvice wrote. I think I shall speak to him about it and get him to be practical.” “No, don’t,” said Mrs. Breezy, “you’d upset Lola. She believes in Ernest and wants him to make a name.” “What’s the good of a name without money? However, I won’t interfere. You—you don’t suppose that Lola’s thinking of marrying that boy some day, do you?” It was a most uncomfortable thought. His little girl must do better than that. Mrs. Breezy was silent for a moment and her face wore a look of the most curious puzzlement.