just packs of gentlemen whenever she likes. But she is tired of them
all." She escaped and he settled his waistcoat.

"You mustn't run away," he admonished her; "nice children don't.
Your mother didn't bring you up like that, I'm sure. She wouldn't
like it."

Linda hesitated, plainly conveying the fact that, if she were to
wait, he would have to say something really important.

"Just you two," he deliberated; "Miss and Mrs. Jones."

"Not at all," Linda asserted shortly; "our name is Condon."

"I wonder if you'd tell her this," he went on: "a gentleman's here
by himself named Bardwell, who has seen her and admires her a whole
lot. Tell her he's no young sprig but he likes a good time all the
better. Dependable, too. Remember that, cutie. And he wouldn't
presume if he had a short pocket. He knows class when he sees it."

"It won't do any good," Linda assured him in her gravest manner.
"She said only this morning she was sick of them."

"That was before dinner," he replied cheerfully. "Things look
different later in the day. You do what I tell you."

All this Linda dutifully repeated. Her mother was at the dressing-table,
rubbing cream into her cheeks, and she paused, surveying her
reflection in the mirror. "He was smoking a big cigar," Linda added.
The other laughed. "What a sharp little thing you are!" she