vulgar display. There was music; the soft sheen of satin; laughter. And
he the gracious, tactful host, king of his own domain--

"Jo, for heaven's sake, if you're going to snore go to bed!"

"Why--did I fall asleep?"

"You haven't been doing anything else all evening. A person would think
you were fifty instead of thirty."

And Jo Hertz was again just the dull, grey, commonplace brother of three
well-meaning sisters.

Babe used to say petulantly, "Jo, why don't you ever bring home any of
your men friends? A girl might as well not have any brother, all the
good you do."

Jo, conscience-stricken, did his best to make amends. But a man who
has been petticoat-ridden for years loses the knack, somehow, of
comradeship with men. He acquires, too, a knowledge of women, and
a distaste for them, equalled only, perhaps, by that of an
elevator-starter in a department store.

Which brings us to one Sunday in May. Jo came home from a late Sunday
afternoon walk to find company for supper. Carrie often had in one of
her school-teacher friends, or Babe one of her frivolous intimates, or
even Eva a staid guest of the old-girl type. There was always a Sunday
night supper of potato salad, and cold meat, and coffee, and perhaps a
fresh cake. Jo rather enjoyed it, being a hospitable soul. But he
regarded the guests with the undazzled eyes of a man to whom they were