"I say, Mater," Ward said from the doorway, with what he fondly
believed to be an English accent, "I'm no end peckish, what what?
Say, Mother," he added, becoming suddenly serious, "what do you
think of Blondin? Isn't he a corker? Say, listen, are you going to
ask him to dinner? Do we have to have the whole Bellamy tribe if
we ask him, Miss Harriet?"

"DON'T spill things and fuss with things, Ward," his mother
protested plaintively, protecting her bottles and jars from his
big hands as he sat down. "Yes, dear, we'll have him. I like him
because he was so enthusiastic about you. He's really quite a
person."

"Person--you bet he is!" Ward said. "Gosh, he knows everything.
You ought to get him started about--oh, I don't know, philosophy,
and the way we all are forever getting things we don't want, and
music--he can beat the box, believe me! He gave talks at the
Pomeroys' last year--"

Nina, trailing in in a blue wrapper, sat herself upon a chair,
wrapped her garments about her, and entered interestedly into the
conversation.

"'The Ethics of the Everyday'," she contributed. "I remember it
because Adelaide Pomeroy and I used to be in the pantry, eating
the tea things. And he talked at our school about Tagore."

"I remember those talks at Lizzie Pomeroy's," Isabelle said,
thoughtfully. "I wish I had gone! I suppose he's got a book out.
Will you see if you can get me anything he's written when you're