Then they were gone. Hahn hardly seemed to notice that they had left. There were, I suppose, the proper number of good-byes, and see you to-morrows, and thank-yous. Sid Hahn stood there a moment in the middle of the room, very small, very squat, rather gnomelike, but not at all funny. He went over to the piano and seated himself, his shoulders hunched, his short legs clearing the floor. With the forefinger of his right hand he began to pick out a little tune. Not a sad little tune. A Hungarian street song. He did it atrociously. The stubby forefinger came down painstakingly on the white keys. Suddenly the little Jap servant stood in the doorway. Hahn looked up. His cheeks were wet with tears. “God! I wish I could play!” he said. _Metropolitan Magazine_ “CLOTHES MAKE THE MAN” BY BOOTH TARKINGTON “CLOTHES MAKE THE MAN”[8] By BOOTH TARKINGTON Mr. and Mrs. Baxter, having walked a hot half mile from church, drooped thankfully into wicker chairs upon their front porch, though their ten-year-old daughter, Jane, who had accompanied them, immediately darted away, swinging her hat by its ribbon and skipping as lithesomely as if she had just come forth upon a cool morning. “I don’t know how she does it!” her father moaned, glancing after her and drying his forehead temporarily upon a handkerchief. “That would merely kill me dead, after walking in this heat.” Then, for a time, the two were content to sit in silence, nodding to occasional acquaintances who passed in the desultory after-church procession. Mr. Baxter fanned himself with sporadic little bursts of energy which made his straw hat creak, and Mrs. Baxter sighed with the heat, and gently rocked her chair. But, as a group of five young people passed along the other side of the street, Mr. Baxter abruptly stopped fanning himself, and, following the direction of his gaze, Mrs. Baxter ceased to rock. In half-completed attitudes they leaned slightly forward, sharing one of those pauses of parents who unexpectedly behold their offspring. The offspring, in this case, was their son, William. “My soul!” said William’s father. “Hasn’t that girl gone home _yet_?” “He looks pale to me,” Mrs. Baxter murmured absently. “I don’t think he seems at all well, lately.” During the seventeen years since the arrival of William, their first born, Mr. Baxter had gradually learned not to protest anxieties of this kind, unless he desired to argue with no prospect of ever getting a decision. “Hasn’t she got any _home_?” he demanded testily. “Isn’t she ever going to quit visiting the Parchers and let people have a little peace?” Mrs. Baxter disregarded this outburst as he had disregarded her remark about William’s pallor. “You mean Miss Pratt?” she inquired dreamily, her eyes following the progress of her son. “No, he really doesn’t look well at all.”