For an hour Lewis sat on the edge of a chair and listened to a stream of
questions and chatter. The chatter was Greek to him. It skimmed over the
surface of things like a swift skater over thin ice. It never broke into
deep waters, but somehow you knew the deep waters were there.

At last Leighton arose.

"Boy," he said, "come here. This lady is my pal. There are times when a
man has to tell things to a woman. That's what women are for. When you
feel you've got to tell things to a woman, you come and tell them to
H lne. Don't be afraid of that peacock of a doorman; push him over.
He's so stiff he'll topple easy."

"Oh, please don't ever!" cried the lady, turning to Lewis. "I'll give
you money to tip him." She turned back to Leighton. "They're so hard to
get with legs, Glen."

"Legs be hanged!" said Leighton. "Our age is trading civility for legs.
The face that welcomes you to a house should be benign----"

"There you go," broke in the lady. "If you'd think a minute, you would
realize that we don't charter doormen to welcome people, but to keep
them out." She turned to Lewis. "But not you, boy. You may come any time
except between nine and ten. That's when I have my bath. What's your
name? I can't call you boy forever."

"Lewis."

"Well, Lew, you may call me H lne, like your father. It'll make me feel
even younger than I am."