"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," says Lucy Lee, springin' the baby stare. "They are simply some of my men friends. For instance, this is dear old Major Knight, who's chairman of some board or other that Daddy is a director on. He is so jolly and is always saying--Well, never mind that. This one is Victor Norris, who tried so hard to get into aviation and was just about to fly when the war had to go and end it. He's a perfectly heavenly dancer. Then there's poor Arthur Kirby, only a secretary to some senator, but such a nice boy. And the one in the naval uniform is Dick--er--Well, I met him at a dinner in Washington just before he got his discharge and he told me so many thrilling things about chasing submarines in the North Sea or--or the Mediterranean or somewhere. Hasn't he nice eyes, though? And this next one----" Well, I forget the rest for about then I got busy wonderin' how she could keep the run of 'em all without the aid of a card index. But she could. To Lucy Lee life must seem like a parade, she being the given point. Which was where I begun to agree with Vee that there ought to be a fourth plate put on the table, for over Sunday, at least. "But who'll I get?" I asks. "Silly!" says Vee. "A man, of course. Any man." "All right," says I. "I'll try to collect somebody, even if I have to draft Piddie." Saturday afternoon is apt to be more or less of a busy time at the Corrugated though, so it's near noon before I remembers my promise and begins to look around panicky. No, Mr. Piddie couldn't oblige. He'd planned to take the fam'ly to the Bronx. Sudders, our assistant auditor, was booked for an all day golf orgie. I'd almost decided to kidnap Vincent, our fair-haired office boy with the parlor manners, when I happened to pass through the bond room and gets a glimpse of this Peyton Pratt person lingerin' at his desk. He's diggin' a time-table out of a suitcase. "Whither away, Peyton?" says I. "Oh!" says he, sighin' discontented. "I suppose I must run up and spend the day with my married sister in New Haven." "Why act so tickled over it?" says I. "But I'm not, really," says Peyton. "It isn't that I am not fond of Ethel, and all that sort of thing. Walter--that's her husband--is a good sort, too, and the children are nice enough. But it's quite a trip to take for such a short visit--and rather expensive, you know. I've just been figuring up." So he had. There on an office pad he's jotted down every item, including the cost of a ten-word day message and the price of a box of candy for the youngsters. He hadn't sent the wire yet, or bought the candy. "Got your dinner coat in there?" I asks, noddin' to the suitcase. He says he has. "Then listen," says I. "Cross New Haven off the map for this time and lemme put you next to a week-end that won't set you back a nickel. Haven't seen my place out on Long Island yet, have you; or met the new heir to the house of Torchy?" "Why--why, no, I haven't," hesitates Peyton.