Oliver, while managing to get through a copious and excellent lunch in spite of his sorrows, regards them with the morose pity of a dyspeptic octogenarian for healthy children. It is all very well and beautiful for them now, he supposes grimly, but sooner or later even such babes as they will have to Face Life--Come Up Against Facts-- He is having a second piece of blueberry pie when he is summoned to the telephone. Rather tiresome of Mother, really, he thinks as he goes out of the dining-room--something about his laundry again most probably--or when he is coming back. “Hello, Oliver?” “Hello, dear. Anything important?” Mrs. Crowe's voice has a tiny chuckle in it--a chuckle that only comes when Mrs. Crowe is being very pleased indeed. “Well, Oliver, that depends--” “Well, Mother, _honestly_! I'm right in the middle of lunch--” “Oh, I'll call up again, if you'd rather, Oliver dear.” But Mrs. Crowe for private reasons doesn't seem to be at all ashamed of taking up so much of her son's very valuable time. “Only I _did_ think it would interest you--that you'd like to know as soon as possible.” Impatiently, “Yes. Well?” “Well--a friend of yours is coming to see you on the three o'clock. A _rather_ good friend. We thought you'd be back by then, you see, and so--” Oliver's heart jumps queerly for an instant. “_Who_?” But the imp of the perverse has taken complete charge of Mrs. Crowe. “Oh--a friend. Not a childhood one--oh, no--but a--good--one, though you haven't seen each other for--more than three weeks now, isn't it? You should just be able to make it, I should think, if somebody brought you over in a car, but of course, if you're so busy--” “_Mother_!” Then Oliver jangles the little hook of the telephone frantically up and down. “Mother! Listen! Listen! Who is it? Is it--honestly?” But Mrs. Crowe has hung up. Shall he get the connection again? But that means waiting--and Mother said he would just be able to make it--and Mother isn't at all the kind that would fool him over a thing like this no matter how much she wanted to tease. Oliver bounds back toward the dining-room and nearly runs into Elinor Piper. He grabs her by the shoulders. “Listen, El!” he says feverishly. “Oh, I'll congratulate you properly and all that some time but this is utterly everything--I've got to go home right away--this minute--toot sweet--and no, by gum, I won't apologize _this_ time for asking you to get somebody to take me over in a car!” XLVIII She was sitting on the porch of the house--a small figure in the close blue hat he knew, a figure that seemed as if it had come tired from a long journey. She had been talking with his mother, but as soon as the car drew up, Mrs. Crowe rose quickly and went into the house. Then they were together again.