dangling her feet over the edge. Her brother took a seat beside her.
"Well," he asked, absent-mindedly, "how do you like New York this trip?"
"Not bad. I'll be over at the Biltmore with the Hoyts until Sunday. Can't you come to luncheon to-morrow?"
He thought a moment.
"I'm especially busy," he objected, "and I hate women in groups."
"All right," she agreed, unruffled. "Let's you and me have luncheon together."
"Very well."
"I'll call for you at twelve."
Bartholomew was obviously anxious to return to his desk, but apparently considered that it would be rude to leave without some parting pleasantry.
"Well"—he began awkwardly.
They both turned to him.
"Well, we—we had an exciting time earlier in the evening."
The two men exchanged glances.
"You should have come earlier," continued Bartholomew, somewhat encouraged. "We had a regular vaudeville."
"Did you really?"
"A serenade," said Henry. "A lot of soldiers gathered down there in the street and began to yell at the sign."
"Why?" she demanded.
"Just a crowd," said Henry, abstractedly. "All crowds have to howl. They didn't have anybody with much initiative in the lead, or they'd probably have forced their way in here and smashed things up."
"Yes," said Bartholomew, turning again to Edith, "you should have been here."
He seemed to consider this a sufficient cue for withdrawal,
