term. But I'm going to tell you, right now, about a party I went to
there, and you can see for yourself what Vicky Van was like.

"How late you're going out," said Winnie, as I slithered into my
topcoat. "It's after eleven."

"Little girls mustn't make comments on big brothers," I smiled back at
her. Win was nineteen and I had attained the mature age of
twenty-seven. We were orphans and spinster Aunt Lucy did her best to
be a parent to us; and we got on smoothly enough, for none of us had
the temperament that rouses friction in the home.

"Across the street?" Aunt Lucy guessed, raising her aristocratic
eyebrows a hair's breadth.

"Yes," I returned, the least bit irritated at the implication of that
hairbreadth raise. "Steele will be over there and I want to see him--"

This time the said eyebrows went up frankly in amusement, and the kind
blue eyes beamed as she said, "All right, Chet, run along."

Though I was Chester Calhoun, the junior partner of the law firm of
Bradbury and Calhoun, and held myself in due and consequent respect, I
didn't mind Aunt Lucy's calling me Chet, or even, as she sometimes
did, Chetty. A man puts up with those things from the women of his
household. As to Winnie, she called me anything that came handy, from
Lord Chesterton to Chessy-Cat.

I patted Aunt Lucy on her soft old shoulder and Winnie on her hard
young head, and was off.