you're acting just as you were brought up to act. Go ahead—have a good time?"
Her feet, which had been idly swinging, stopped and her voice dropped a note.
"I wish you'd—you'd come back to Harrisburg and have a good time. Do you feel sure that you're on the right track——"
"You're wearing beautiful stockings," he interrupted. "What on earth are they?"
"They're embroidered," she replied, glancing down; "Aren't they cunning?" She raised her skirts and uncovered slim, silk-sheathed calves. "Or do you disapprove of silk stockings?"
He seemed slightly exasperated, bent his dark eyes on her piercingly.
"Are you trying to make me out as criticizing you in any way, Edith?"
"Not at all——-"
She paused. Bartholomew had uttered a grunt. She turned and saw that he had left his desk and was standing at the window.
"What is it?" demanded Henry.
"People," said Bartholomew, and then after an instant: "Whole jam of them. They're coming from Sixth Avenue."
"People?"
The fat man pressed his nose to the pane.
"Soldiers, by God!" he said emphatically. "I had an idea they'd come back."
Edith jumped to her feet, and running over joined Bartholomew at the window.
"There's a lot of them!" she cried excitedly. "Come here, Henry!"
Henry readjusted his shade, but kept his seat.
"Hadn't we better turn out the lights?" suggested Bartholomew.
"
