snug. No loose ends about Mother, I can tell you, from the top of her
stunning little hat to the toes of her jolly little Oxfords over silk
stockings that would get anybody. Even her motoring gloves are "kept
up," as we say of a car, The sight of her, smiling that absolutely
gorgeous smile that shows her splendid white teeth, made me mighty
glad I'd come home.

Act as if I'd come to say good-bye, and could stay only twenty-four
hours? I should say she didn't. Kissed me, with her hand on my
shoulder--glove off--and then said: "Want to spin round the Circle,
Jack, before we go home? By that time they'll all be there."

"Sure," I said, grinning at the car. We're not rich, and I don't sport
a car to go to lectures with, like Hoofy and a lot of other fellows,
so ours always looks darned good to me when I get home. Mother
understands how I'm crazy to drive the minute I can get my hands on
the wheel, so without an invitation I put her into the seat beside me
and took the driver's place myself. She settled down, same as she
always does, and remarked:

"It's always so good to have you drive. I never shall get quite the
form you have."

Which wasn't true a bit, for she drives just as well as I do--she
ought to, I taught her. But she has an awfully clever little trick of
making a fellow feel good, and I like it--who wouldn't? A lot of
mothers never lose an opportunity to take a son down a bit--though I
don't suppose one would whose son had come to say goodbye. That same
sort are the ones to weep on their boys' shoulders, though, I've
noticed.