clad, were sitting on the porch again, the men smoking on the
steps below them, that tine Green Imp came back.

Ten minutes later a large figure crossed the lawn at a pace
which suggested both reluctance and fatigue.

"If it hadn't been for that beefsteak - " Burns began.

"You wouldn't have come," finished Macauley. "Oh, we know
that! Go in and get it, Red, and perhaps afterward the charms
of human society will have their inning."

Whether or not the beefsteak made the difference, a change had
taken place when R. P. Burns at length returned to the
comforts of the porch. He threw himself upon a crimson
cushion on the upper step, precisely at the feet, as it
chanced, of Ellen Lessing. As he leaned comfortably back
against the porch pillar he looked directly up into her face,
his eyes meeting hers with an odd, searching expression as if
he now saw her for the first time. Pauline, gazing enviously
across, saw the black eyes meet the hazel ones in the dim
light, and noted that a curiously long look was exchanged -
the sort of look which denotes that two people are observing
each other closely, without attempt at producing an
impression, only at discovering what is there.

But when Burns began to talk he appeared to address the
midsummer night air, staring off into it and speaking rather
low, so that they all leaned forward to listen. For, at last,
he seemed to have something other than motor cars upon his