years into man's complete estate, which, at nineteen, is that patch of
territory at youth's feet known as "the world." Gray eyed, his dark lashes
long enough to threaten to curl, the lean line of his jaw squaring after
the manner of America's fondest version of her manhood, he was already in
danger of fond illusions and fond mommas.

"Hello, mother!" he said, striding quickly through the chairs and over to
where she sat.

"Edwin!"

"Thought I'd sleep home to-night, mother."

He kissed her lightly, perking up her shoulder butterflies of green
sequins, and standing off to observe.

"Got to hand it to my little mother for quiet and sumptuous el-e-gance!
Some classy spangy-wangles!" He ran his hand against the lay of the
sequins, absorbed in a conscious kind of gaiety.

She moistened her lips, trying to smile.

"Oh, boy," she said--"Edwin!"--holding to his forearm with fingers that
tightened into it.

"Mother," he said, pulling at his coat lapels with a squaring of shoulders,
"you--you going to be a dead game little sport?"

She was looking ahead now, abstraction growing in her white face.