laughter. After New York--Milwaukee!

Of course Von Gerhard is to blame. But I think even
he sees the humor of it. It happened in this way, on a
day when I was indulging in a particularly
greenery-yallery fit of gloom. Norah rushed into my
room. I think I was mooning over some old papers, or
letters, or ribbons, or some such truck in the charming,
knife-turning way that women have when they are blue.

"Out wid yez!" cried Norah. "On with your hat and
coat! I've just had a wire from Ernst von Gerhard. He's
coming, and you look like an under-done dill pickle. You
aren't half as blooming as when he was here in August,
and this is October. Get out and walk until your cheeks
are so red that Von Gerhard will refuse to believe that
this fiery-faced puffing, bouncing creature is the green
and limp thing that huddled in a chair a few months ago.
Out ye go!"

And out I went. Hatless, I strode countrywards,
leaving paved streets and concrete walks far behind.
There were drifts of fallen leaves all about, and I
scuffled through them drearily, trying to feel gloomy,
and old, and useless, and failing because of the tang in
the air, and the red-and-gold wonder of the frost-kissed
leaves, and the regular pump-pump of good red blood that
was coursing through my body as per Norah's request.

In a field at the edge of the town, just where city