“I mean she invited me to get on the bandwagon,” he explained. “Not right up on a front seat, of course; but anyhow I was given a ticket to hang on behind somewhere.” “I don’t understand you.” “Probably you don’t,” Hobart said, and he looked thoughtful. “You’re always so above the crowd, Anne, probably you wouldn’t understand Miss Ealing’s invitations. You see I’m in a pretty good position to see things that you wouldn’t, so to speak. Of course, strangers never pay any attention to the little shrimps in a crowd, and when Miss Ealing did pay me a slight attention I wasn’t so grateful as I should have been;—I thought it was pretty funny.” “‘Funny’!” Anne exclaimed. “Why?” “Because it only showed her up, you see. Of course, it didn’t mean she had any interest in me; it only meant she had a use for me. She already had most of the rest of ’em excited about her; but she’s a real collector and she wanted the _whole_ collection—even me! You see, the girl that makes ’em _all_ think she’s thinking about them isn’t thinking about _any_ of ’em, of course. She’s only thinking about herself, like any other selfish little brute.” “Hobart!” “Of course, I don’t mean to say she gave me a pressing invitation to join,” he explained, laughing cheerfully at himself. “Naturally, that couldn’t be expected. The big, hand-painted, gilt-edged card was for Harrison Crisp, of course; and then there were a number of handsomely engraved ones for tall eligibles. She just slipped me a little one printed on soft paper—a sort of handbill, you know, when she was delivering ’em around to the residue.” Anne’s languor had vanished now. She stared at him incredulously. “Hobart Simms,” she cried, “what do you mean by ‘handbills’?” “It’s simple enough,” he began. “That is, it is to me. Taller men with fathers that aren’t in the hands of a receiver wouldn’t have much of a chance to understand it, I imagine. She’s made a real stir in our little Green Hills midst with her handbills and——” Anne interrupted sharply: “I asked you what you meant by her ‘handbills.’” “Yes; I’m trying to tell you, but it’s so ridiculous I’m afraid you won’t be able to see what I mean. It’s like this: she’ll be passing you, for instance, dancing with some other man, or hanging to his arm, and she’ll whisper to you quickly over his shoulder, ‘I _heard_ something about you,’ or, ‘I’ve found _out_ something about you,’ or, maybe, ‘Can’t you even _look_ at me?’ Something like that, you know,—and you’re supposed to get excited and follow up the mystery. You’re supposed to wonder just how much she _is_ thinking about you, you see. That’s what I mean by her handbills, because if you _don’t_ get excited, but look around a little, you’ll notice she’s passing ’em pretty freely. That’s why I thought it was funny when she even gave me one!” “Hobart!” Anne cried, and her voice was free and loud, “Hobart Simms!” “Yes?” he said, inquiringly, not comprehending the vehemence of her exclamation.