She sat opposite him while he ate, enjoying the way he seemed to relish each mouthful. “Now tell me all about the dance,” she said. “Did they have a nice crowd?” “Yes—a very nice crowd.” “Did you dance every dance?” “Every blessed one! The music was fine, and as I told you, last night, I had a dandy time. Would you like to go to Central Park this afternoon?” he asked suddenly, anxious to change the subject. Somehow he didn’t want to talk about last night, but couldn’t have given a reason for the reluctancy he felt in mentioning it. “No, dear,” Marjorie answered. “I prefer resting this afternoon, if you don’t mind. But you go somewhere yourself—to a movie, or a vaudeville.” “No, I’ll stay home with you. I—I may take a little run out—this evening.” “Certainly, dear. That’s right.” She began clearing away the dishes. Kate Walsh received Howard Benton in the “front-room” of the Walsh flat—a shabbily furnished little square of room that was used mainly for three purposes—receiving company, exhibiting a new baby, or holding a wake. The family had been banished to the kitchen at the end of the hall for the evening, with the exception of her mother, whom Kate brought into introduce to Howard. Mrs. Walsh was a good-natured, stout little woman, rather tired and faded looking. She had been in this country since she was sixteen, but she still clung to her native brogue. “Shure, Mister Benton, ’tis glad to meet ye Oi am. Kitty here’s been tellin’ me what a foine young gintleman ye are.” “Oh, Ma, you do say such things!” Kate giggled. “You ain’t got no delicacy at all.” Mrs. Walsh looked wise, but kept silent. She didn’t know exactly what Kitty meant by delicacy. After a minute, she held out her hand to Howard. “If ye’ll be afther excusin’ me, Mister Benton,” she apologized, “Oi’ll be sayin’ good-night to ye, and goin’ back to the babies. It’s about toime they wuz in bed.” And feeling that she had nobly done her duty by her daughter by coming in to be introduced to the gentleman—the same as all the society matrons did in the novels Kitty read and told her about—Mrs. Walsh bowed herself out, and hastened to the more urgent duties awaiting her in the kitchen. Howard remained until ten-thirty. He enjoyed the evening immensely; Kate was such good company. “Of course,” he began making excuses to himself on his way home, “she is illiterate, and she did say some of the most ridiculous things, trying to use expressions she had picked up in novels. But altogether, she is a sort of rough diamond, and after all, education doesn’t amount to very much—I’ll tell the world mine hasn’t! And she’s so very young! A few months’ instruction from a private teacher would do wonders for her, or—um—um—maybe I could take her on myself.” The idea was far from disagreeable to the youth who had never believed pedagogy to be anywhere in his line.