Bentley cannot be her niece. She could scarcely fall out of a street
car. A victoria or a limousine would be necessary in her case."

The Candy Man did not see his way clear to disclaim proprietorship in
Miss Bentley, so let it pass. Certainly, on other grounds his Miss
Bentley, to call her so, could not be Mrs. Gerrard Pennington's niece.
Not that she lacked the charm to grace any position however high, but
her simplicity and friendliness, the fact that she walked in the country
with a stoutish relative who was intimate with the family of the park
superintendent, the marketing he had witnessed, all went to prove his
point.

Yet on the occasion of a fashionable noon wedding at the stone church
near the Y.M.C.A. corner, all this impressive evidence was brought to
naught. In the crush of machines and carriages the Candy Wagon was all
but engulfed in high life. When the crowd surged out after the bridal
party, the congestion for a few minutes baffled the efforts of the corps
of police.

The Candy Man, looking on with much amusement at the well-dressed
throng, presently received a thrill at the sound of a clear young voice
exclaiming, "Here is the car, Aunt Eleanor--over here."

The haughtiest of limousines had taken up its station just beyond the
Candy Wagon, and toward this the owner of the voice was piloting a
majestic and breathless personage. If the Candy Man could have doubted
his ears, he could not doubt his eyes. Here was the grace, the sparkle,
the everything that made her his Miss Bentley, the Girl of All
Others--except the grey suit. Now she wore velvet, and wonderful white
plumes framed her face and touched her bright hair. No, there was no