"The last I knew," says I, "he was comin' strong. Course, he made a couple of false starts there at the send-off, but now he seems to have struck his gait." "Really!" says Old Hickory. "And now, solely in the interest of the Corrugated Trust, could you go so far as to predict a date when he might reasonably be expected to resume business activities?" I chews that over a minute, and runs my fingers thoughtful through my red thatch. "Nope," says I. "If I was any such prize guesser as that, I'd be down in Wall Street buckin' the market. Maybe after Sunday, though, I might make a report one way or the other." "Ah! You scent a crisis, do you?" says he. "It's this way," says I. "Marjorie's givin' a little week-end house party for 'em out at her place, and--well, you know how that's apt to work out at this stage of the game." "You think it may end the agony?" says he. "There'll be a swell chance for twosin'," says I. "Marjorie's plannin' for that." "I see," says Mr. Ellins. "Undisturbed propinquity--a love charm that was old when the world was young. And if Marjorie is managing the campaign, it's all over with Robert." That was my dope on the subject too, after I'd seen the layout of her first skirmish. There was just half a dozen of us mobilized at this flossy suburban joint Saturday afternoon, but from the start it was plain that four of us was on hand only to keep each other out of the way of this pair. Course, Vee and I hardly needs to have the cue passed. We were satisfied to hunt up a veranda corner of our own and stick to it. But Brother-in-law Ferdie, with that doubleply slate roof of his, needs watchin' close. He has a nutty idea that he ought to be sociable, and he no sooner spots Mr. Robert and Miss Elsa Hampton, chattin' cozy in a garden nook, than he's prompted to kick in and explain to 'em all about the Latin names of the surroundin' vines and shrubbery. Which brings out business of distress from Marjorie. So one of us has to go shoo him away. "Why--er--what's the matter?" says he, blinkin' puzzled, after he's been led off. "You was makin' a noise like a seed catalogue, that's all," says I. "Chop it, can't you?" Ferdie only stares at me through his thick window-panes and puts on an injured air. Half an hour later, though, he's at it again. "You tell him, Torchy," sighs Marjorie. "Try to make him understand." So I makes a strong stab. "Look," says I, towin' him off on a thin excuse. "That ain't any convention they're holdin' out there. So far as they know, it's just a happy chance. If they're let alone the meetin' may develop tender moments. Anyway, you might give 'em a show, and if they want you bad they can run up a flag. See? There's times, you know, when two is bliss, but a third is a blister. Get me?" I expect he did, in a way. The idea filters through sort of slow, but he finally decides that, for some reason too deep for him to dig up, he ain't wanted mixin' around folksy.