It was Saturday afternoon, possibly the very next Saturday, or at most
the Saturday after that, and the Candy Wagon was making money. The day
of the week was unmistakable, for the working classes were getting home
early; fathers of families with something extra for Sunday in paper bags
under their arms. And the hat boxes! They passed the Candy Man's corner
by the hundreds. Every feminine person in the big apartment houses must
be intending to wear a new hat to-morrow.

There was something special going on at the Country Club--the Candy Man
had taken to reading the social column--and the people of leisure and
semi-leisure were to be well represented there, to judge by the machines
speeding up the avenue; among them quite probably Miss Bentley and Mr.
Augustus McAllister.

This not altogether pleasing reflection had scarcely taken shape in his
mind, when, in the act of handing change to a customer, he beheld Miss
Bentley coming toward him; without a doubt his Miss Bentley this time,
for she wore the grey suit and the felt hat, jammed down any way on her
bright hair and pinned with the pinkish quill. She was not alone. By
her side walked a rather shabby, elderly man, with a rosy face, whose
pockets bulged with newspapers, and who carried a large parcel. She was
looking at him and he was looking at her, and they were both laughing.
Comradeship of the most delightful kind was indicated.

Without a glance in the direction of the Candy Wagon they passed. Well,
at any rate she wasn't at the Country Club. But how queer!

Earlier in the afternoon Virginia had gone by in dancing-school array,
accompanied by an absurdly youthful mother. "I've got something to tell
you," she called, and the Candy Man could see her being reproved for