why--"

"Tell him to come up," interrupted Emma McChesney, suddenly.

A faint gleam of the old humor lighted up her face when Fat Ed Meyers
painfully tip-toed in, brown derby in hand, his red face properly
doleful, brown shoes squeaking. His figure loomed mountainous in a
light-brown summer suit.

"Ain't you ashamed of yourself?" he began, heavily humorous. "Couldn't
you find anything better to do in the middle of the season? Say, on
the square, girlie, I'm dead sorry. Hard luck, by gosh! Young T. A.
himself went out with a line in your territory, didn't he? I didn't
think that guy had it in him, darned if I did."

"It was sweet of you to send all those violets, Mr. Meyers. I hope
you're not disappointed that they couldn't have been worked in the
form of a pillow, with 'At Rest' done in white curlycues."

"Mrs. McChesney!" Ed Meyers' round face expressed righteous reproof,
pain, and surprise. "You and I may have had a word, now and then, and
I will say that you dealt me a couple of low-down tricks on the road,
but that's all in the game. I never held it up against you. Say,
nobody ever admired you or appreciated you more than I did--"

"Look out!" said Emma McChesney. "You're speaking in the past tense.
Please don't. It makes me nervous."

Ed Meyers laughed, uncomfortably, and glanced yearningly toward the
door. He seemed at a loss to account for something he failed to find