"What sort?"

"Some lovely peaches."

"Doe' want 'ny canned peaches," said the frank Walter, moving
back his chair. "G'-night."

"Walter! It doesn't begin till about nine o'clock at the
earliest."

He paused, mystified. "What doesn't?"

"The dance."

"What dance?"

"Why, Mildred Palmer's dance, of course."

Walter laughed briefly. "What's that to me?"

"Why, you haven't forgotten it's TO-NIGHT, have you?" Mrs. Adams
cried. "What a boy!"

"I told you a week ago I wasn't going to that ole dance," he
returned, frowning. "You heard me."

"Walter!" she exclaimed. "Of COURSE you're going. I got your
clothes all out this afternoon, and brushed them for you.
They'll look very nice, and----"