gray hair, also a mustache that's well frosted up. He's a tall, slim
built party, with a wide black ribbon to tie him to his eyeglasses.
Seems to be entertainin' Auntie.

"Ah!" says he, inspectin' me casual over the shell rims. "Mr.
Ballard?" And, with a skimpy little nod, he turns back to Auntie and
goes on where he broke off, leavin' me to shake hands with myself if I
wanted to.

I expect it served me right, cuttin' in abrupt on such a highbrow
conversation as that. Something about the pre-Raphael tendencies of
the Barbizon school, I think.

Culture! Say, if I'm any judge, Claude was battin' about 400. It
fairly dripped from him. Talk about broad o's--he spilled 'em easy and
natural, a font to a galley; and he couldn't any more miss the final g
than a telephone girl would overlook rollin' her r's. And such
graceful gestures with the shell-rimmed glasses, wavin' 'em the whole
length of the ribbon when he got real interested.

I don't think I ever saw Auntie come so near beamin' before. She seems
right at home, fieldin' that line of chat. And Vee, too, is more or
less under the spell. As for me, I'm on the outside lookin' in. I did
manage though, after doin' the dummy act for half an hour, to lead Vee
off to the window alcove and get in a few words.

[Illustration: "I don't think I ever saw Auntie come so near beamin'
before. She seems right at home, fieldin' that line of chat. And Vee,
too, is more or less under the spell."]