Deej Recommends: A Mere Detail

by Robert J. Horton

Robert J. Horton died just over 92 years ago, and is unfortunately forgotten. It’s unfortunate both because he was a pretty darned good writer, but also because he was, from what little we know, A Character. Most of what we know of him comes from Walt Coburn’s recollections of him in his own autobiography, Walt Coburn: Western Word Wrangler.

But there are a few tidbits left behind by Horton himself. One is an essay on the writing of the following story in The Editor, which was a precursor (and then competitor) to Writer’s Digest. Look for that tomorrow.

As to this story, it is of interest to me because I like Horton’s writing, and it’s the only example of such that I've come across that is not a western. (I do think he had at least a few other not-westerns published, I just haven’t found them yet.) For something much more in the vein of what I know him for, you can check out The Law Comes to Singing River, his very first (I think) novel that appeared in the pages of Adventure a year or so after today’s story was published in Munsey’s.

A Mere Detail

by Robert J. Horton

I

Henry Pennington Till held the shimmering object at arm’s length and regarded it with worshipful eyes. He moved it gently, so that the light caught its colors and flaunted them before his delighted vision. He caressed it between thumb and fingers.

“Elegant!” he sighed, and laid the necktie upon the counter before him.

Daily, between the hours of eight and six, Sunday excepted, and save for a brief lunch interval, Henry Pennington Till stood behind that counter in the haberdashery department of Hardbeck’s store and filled the shirt and neckwear needs of an increasing clientele of gentlemen who respected his judgment.

He advised, when it came to patterns and colors—tactfully, of course—but none the less insistently.

Why, once he absolutely refused to sell a bright-red necktie to a visiting cattleman from Texas, which so astonished the stockman that he took the soft cerulean creation offered, even though he knew his wife would swear a woman had picked it out for him.

Henry was something of an artist, and he had two passions—neckties and poetry. He possessed an innate love for color. He studied it, and thus improved his taste. This taste had found a natural outlet in the selection of proper contrasts and combinations in haberdashery.

And so Henry loved his job.

He even claimed that a man’s necktie indicated his character!

“I don’t like the looks of that fellow,” he had complained in a querulous voice to Mrs. Perkins, his landlady, when she had extended credit to a new boarder. “Those checked ties like he wears are treacherous. Do you know they take more checked ties off criminals they send to the penitentiaries than any other kind? And his knots show carelessness. No, not studied carelessness, Mrs. Perkins. That fellow is downright slovenly!”

And, sure enough, the gentleman in question had disappeared between days with his meager baggage, leaving an unpaid bill and one frayed, checked tie to support Henry’s argument.

Poetry he made a veritable hobby. He went into it thoroughly, both internally and externally.

First he had read it in school. Then he wrote it—or wrote at it. Next he had bought it, and now at twenty-three he had a creditable library of verse of old masters and new masters, and some who are not masters at all, but whose published work had taken the form of bindings which pleased his critical eye and coaxed his coin.

He put all his money into books. This is a literal statement. Henry’s salary was small, and he was a bit suspicious of banks. Also, banking savored too much of sordid commercialism. He worked in a store. That was commercialism enough. Outside of his working hours he lived with the poets in a different atmosphere. Remember, Henry had the view-point of the artist.

So he slipped his savings, in the form of small bills, between the covers of his books, which he kept in a bookcase in his room under lock and key.

In a pocket ledger he kept his accounts.

“Let me see,” he pondered on a Saturday night, beneath his small lamp with the green shade, in his small room on the second floor back, in a typical New York boarding-house. “Last week Keats got three dollars. That makes him twelve dollars. His balance is getting ’way up.”

Then he ran his finger down the line of poets’ names, arranged alphabetically, with figures opposite.

“Why, here’s Tennyson with only—why, Tennyson ain’t had anything for six months!”

So the week’s savings were slipped into a gilt-edged volume between certain verses of the late laureate’s “Lady of Shalott.”

There might have been method in this novel plan, at that, for what burglar would think of rummaging through books of poetry in a poor young man’s room in search of money?

II

The scope of Henry Pennington Till’s life widened just enough to take in Marjorie Sheldon.

Marjorie was in the notions. She also boarded with Mrs. Perkins. She was easy to look upon, Marjorie was, with a profusion of lustrous brown hair and eyes to match, and a little nose that had an ambitious upward tendency, and mouth, lips, and teeth which held Henry a blushing, stammering captive with their smile.

She was the bright, luminous star, seemingly unattainable, that glowed in Henry’s horizon of dreams.

Sometimes he walked with her on Riverside Drive. Sometimes they went to the movies. Always Henry found it impossible to shake off his embarrassment and meet her on common ground. She, on the other hand, was confident. You see, Marjorie had other admirers, and—to Henry’s chagrin — bolder admirers.

But Marjorie didn’t evade the excursions with Henry. As a matter of fact, she was a pretty sensible sort of kid, though only eighteen. She knew a thing or two. She recognized two sterling qualities in Henry—he was steady and he was healthy. Albeit, Henry was good to look upon. True, he wore glasses, but he looked through them with something of an air. Furthermore, he was well set up. He knew, too, unconsciously, how to garb himself so that his physical perfections showed to advantage.

Marjorie was aware of his passion for poetry and neckties. As for the poetry—well, do you know many young women who object to it? And she swore by Henry’s taste in neckwear. She seldom saw him wearing the same tie twice. Why should she? He got them at cost, or as gifts from the salesmen or manufacturers.

She didn’t hesitate to praise Henry’s ties. Now and then she was lavish to the point of eulogy. At such times he felt his heart grow warm, and his embarrassment was submerged in gratitude. Once he had actually taken her hand, but, of course, he wouldn’t do so again.

Still, she hadn’t withdrawn it. She had even seemed to sigh when he released it with a violent reddening of countenance. But then, he might have imagined that.

A whole summer and winter passed with Henry drifting on the brim of the eddy of love. He was still timorously fearful of disclosing the reason for his frequent glances toward the notion-counter by day, and toward a certain place at table at dinner.

But he set some of his sentiments down at various times on scraps of paper under his green-shaded lamp, with a little aid from some of the old masters on his shelves. If Mrs. Perkins carried sundry of these versifications surreptiously to Marjorie, he did not know it. If Mrs. Perkins had, on one or two occasions, allowed Marjorie to see Henry’s quarters, he was unaware of that, too. And if on one of these occasions Marjorie had got into his bookcase, which he had carelessly left unlocked, and glanced through a few volumes of his poetry bank—

There are some things, however, that are going to be kept under cover in this public record. As I have said, Marjorie was in some ways a practical little thing, and Mrs. Perkins, after all, though a boarding-house keeper, was delightfully human.

Thus spring came; the grass in the parks and on the Drive grew green; Mrs. Perkins hung a bird in a cage outside Henry’s window, and he had his salary raised!

He walked home from the subway station with Marjorie one evening. They stopped for a brief spell in a little triangle of park which the builders had mysteriously overlooked. Here he showed her his newest treasure.

“Oh, isn’t it beautiful?” she exclaimed breathlessly. “Such a lavender!”

It was a necktie, of course.

“Well, I guess it’s beautiful,” boasted Henry, with such confidence that he surprised both her and himself. “That’s a new shade of lavender. There ain’t ten ties just like that in the world! It’s an accident—that shade. It’s—it’s elegant!”

“When are you going to wear it first?” she asked, struck with the beauty of the shimmering silk thing which she held.

“I am saving that for a very special occasion,” was the answer, in such a low voice that she barely heard. He leaned toward her, trembling. “A very special occasion when—I hope—to hear some—good news.”

“Why, what do you mean? What kind of good news?”

“Well, I’m going to ask somebody a question!”’

She looked into his eyes, and whatever it was she saw there it made her lower her own and sent the roses into her cheeks.

Both were taciturn at dinner. They did not look at each other. But the spring seemed to have got into Mrs. Perkins’s blood, for she talked a blue streak.

III

Thus matters stood on the following Tuesday morning.

Henry had not as yet donned the lavender tie for the special occasion. The raise in salary counted, he told himself, but she—anyway, the trying on of the tie once or twice had failed to spur his courage to the test.

He reflected upon this as he rode downtown in the subway, noting meanwhile the neckwear garnishments of his fellow passengers.

The small man with the sideburns had discarded stripes and was wearing a plain blue four-in-hand. Now, what had occasioned the change? Henry had never seen him—and he saw him often—in a plain-colored tie before. Better quality, too. He set the day down in his mind as a momentous one in the small man’s career. He looked forward to what future observations might reveal.

It was this way twice a day with Henry. On the down-town and on the up-town trip he studied those in the cars with him, and formulated his opinions of them and their business according to the cravats they wore.

And, even as he had decided it must be a momentous day in the career of the man who had changed from stripes to plain blue, it also proved to be a most momentous day in his own career. Perhaps it was this that the change of tie forecasted. It was brought about by a young man who approached the counter shortly before noon.

“That’s a pretty thing you’ve got on,” this young man observed, indicating Henry’s cravat.

“Yes; one of the new spring four-in-hands,” said Henry, pleased. “A little more colorful this season; look at these, for instance.”

He led his prospective customer to a display rack. The young man bought three, relying entirely upon Henry’s judgment in the matter of selection.

“I’m in rather hard luck this morning; no business to be buying ties at all,” audibly reflected the customer while awaiting his parcel.

Henry proved sympathetic.

“Yes, I shall have to sacrifice a hundred-dollar share of Great Southwest Oil and Refineries for seventy-five dollars in order to get back home,” the other confided. “I live in Oklahoma; been here a coupla weeks, and I’ve gone too strong. Still, I’m willing to sacrifice twenty-five dollars to get home and over my time.”

The young stranger laughed engagingly.

“You know how it is—pretty girls and all that. Costs like the dickens!”

Yes, Henry knew, or thought he did.

“I won’t have any trouble getting rid of the hundred-dollar share of Southwest. I could get the whole hundred if I wanted to go down to Wall Street, but—takes time, and it’s a bother, and I want to get right out.” The young man shrugged an elegantly groomed shoulder. “Some business, the oil business. Say, do you know what Tulsa Triangle first sold for?”

Oil! Henry had heard of it! The papers never tired telling of the big fortunes made in the fields of flowing gold. Why, even old Hardbeck, owner of the store, was said to have made a million in mid-continent oil development.

“Do you know what it first sold for?” the young man repeated.

“No,” confessed Henry in smothered accents, strangely thrilled.

The stranger fixed him with wide eyes, brows arched.

“Ten dollars!” he exclaimed, and smote the counter with an open palm. “Ten dollars, and—but, of course, you know what it is now!”

He straightened and sighed. Henry nodded knowingly. Here was subtle flattery. No natural caution could move him to confess his ignorance. Not on his life would he say that he didn’t know what it was worth—that, indeed, he didn’t know one oil stock from another. He slapped his palm with his sales-book to give emphasis to his attitude of wisdom. He went the other’s sigh one better, and whistled softly.

“Wish I had bought some at the first price,” he said bravely, as he handed the young man his parcel.

The young man turned away—and as suddenly turned back.

“Why, say, old top!” he exclaimed, looking at Henry with sudden inspiration. “You might as well profit by my foolishness as anybody else. I’ve got to sacrifice this share of Southwest Oil and Refineries, and you can make twenty-five dollars by taking it off my hands; and if you hold it a month or two it may be worth five hundred. They’re drilling three new wells, and when those wells come in—good night!”

Henry gasped at the startling idea. He had never thought of that. Why, to be sure, since this agreeable young man had to let a share of valuable oil stock go for less than it was worth, why shouldn’t he profit by it? Why not?

But no! If it shouldn’t prove all that was claimed for it it would be, well—Henry couldn’t afford to lose any money, that was all. He glanced toward the notion-counter. There was too much at stake. No, he couldn’t consider buying any stock, no matter how good, at this time.

“You’re not taking a chance in the world,” pressed the stranger, laughing. “Why, here is the certificate—look at it. There’s the par value right there in plain type—one hundred dollars.”

But Henry was not looking at the figure pointed out. He was looking at something else, and looking at it with indubitable interest. He held the certificate up to the light.

“You say it’s worth a hundred dollars, and you’ll take seventy-five for it?” he asked.

“Exactly,” was the reply. “It’s gilt-edged.”

“All right,” said Henry with tightened lips. “I’ll take it.”

He looked at his watch. It was his lunch-hour.

“We will have to go up to my boarding-house to get the money,” he apologized. “Of course, if you don’t want to take that much time—”

“Oh, that’s all right,” said the other hastily. “I’d rather lose a little time and be able to help out a fellow who will appreciate it. I guess you can use the money you make on the deal, and goodness knows I can afford to spare what I lose.”

Henry looked at the young man again. He had an honest face; he had an honest way of speaking; he wore an honest tie. That settled it, with Henry.

They went to the boarding-house, where Henry left his companion in the little parlor while he went up-stairs to his room and opened his bookcase.

It wiped out Keats’s balance, took all Shelley had, broke Milton flat, and left Longfellow a pauper, to raise that seventy-five dollars!

Henry sighed as he put the books back on the shelves after extracting their little stores of bills, but he brightened with the thought:

“I can transfer Byron’s account, since he is going to get the stock anyway, to the others, and make up the balance in a few weeks; and I’ve still got some cash left.”

The young man did not ride back downtown with Henry. He had remembered a farewell errand not far from that neighborhood; but there was no questioning the sincerity of his good wishes at parting.

IV

Marjorie was anxious, despite the fact that she told herself she didn’t care. She had seen Henry depart with the strange young man. She had seen them disappear down the up-town subway entrance, and she could not imagine why Henry should enter the subway when he had only a half-hour for lunch. Then he had been late returning.

She worried the matter in her mind, although she had seen Henry reappear behind his counter looking, if anything, more cheerful than ever. It didn’t concern her, she reflected, and she was sure she didn’t care anything about Henry’s affairs; still—any deviation in his usual routine was most unusual in Henry. And then she saw something which froze her gaze in the direction of the haberdashery department.

Henry and Mr. Meyers, buyer of haberdashery, were arguing. They were arguing more strenuously than she had ever seen them argue before. Henry was holding a legal-looking paper up to the light. She could see a big gold seal upon it. His face was red, and he was talking loudly to Mr. Meyers, who was answering angrily. In her excitement she stepped from behind her counter to a vantage-point within hearing distance.

“I tell you I know what I’m talking about!” she heard Henry declare in a strident tone.

Before she could smother her gasp of surprise at Henry’s temerity in so addressing his superior, she gasped again; for from around the corner of the aisle appeared Hiram Hardbeck, the rich owner of the store.

“And I know what I am talking about, too, when I say you’re fired, and I say that now!” replied Meyers hotly.

“Quite right,” broke in Mr. Hardbeck. “I happened to overhear a part of this conversation, and I quite agree with you, Mr. Meyers.” The store-owner turned to Henry, whose eyes still were flashing fire. “Young man, I will not have any one in my employ talking back to his superiors. Call at the office for what is due you, and go—without a recommendation.”

Then Hiram Hardbeck, smoothing a lapel of his coat and flicking an imaginary fleck of dust from his immaculate sleeve, passed on, while Meyers bowed most obsequiously and Henry stared with rapidly paling cheeks.

Marjorie stole back to her counter.

Without looking to right or left, Henry went to the office.

On his way up-town in the subway he even failed to notice the neckwear worn by the other passengers! He was in a sort of stupor. Again and again he took from his pocket the share of stock which had been the cause of the whole unfortunate affair. The full force of the calamity began to dawn on him by degrees.

He had lost his job!

Without a thought that such a thing could happen, he had ridden down in that very subway that very morning with joy in his heart and contentment, almost, in his mind. And now, within a few hours, the whole complexion of the world had changed.

He realized suddenly that his work behind the neckwear-counter had been the biggest half of his life. Without it there was a void. He had loved his work; he had taken pride in it; he had cultivated it, humored it, given of his best to it. He had been a long time getting up to the moderate salary which he had just lost.

And Marjorie! His heart sank with a sickening palpitation. He wrenched his thoughts back to his future. He could doubtless secure another job, but he would have to start at a smaller salary, and without references!

Luckily he had enough to tide him over. With the twenty-five dollars’ profit on the stock he might not be so badly off, after all. This brought another disconcerting reflection. How about that stock? He took the certificate out and looked at it again.

From the up-town station he went to a branch bank near his boarding-house.

“Can you tell me the value of this stock?” he asked through the teller’s window.

The teller smiled. An every-day question, doubtless. He retired to the rear for a moment.

“Two dollars and eighty cents, if you can find a buyer,” he answered upon his return.

Henry moved dully out through the door. Birds were singing, the sun was shining, there was a scent of growing things in the air; but Henry neither heard, nor saw, nor smelled. Spring, for him, was a mere arrangement of figures upon a calendar.

V

He did not show up at the boarding-house for dinner that night, and it was late when he crept to his room.

Methodically he took out a volume of Lord Byron’s poems and placed therein the stock certificate.

He had not even paused to reason out whether the young man who had sold him the stock had or had not realized that it was worthless. He did not care. He had been thinking of other things. He replaced the volume, closed the bookcase, locked it, undressed quickly, and went to bed.

When he awoke, the canary outside the window was singing happily and lustily. He went down to breakfast later than usual, to avoid seeing Marjorie.

Mrs. Perkins looked at him anxiously.

“Are you sick to-day, Henry?” she inquired.

“No, just laying off; other business,” he replied briskly.

A boarding-house is a poor place in which to parade one’s troubles.

Down on the Drive, with green grass underneath and green leaves overhead, and the broad, placid waters of the Hudson lying in the sun, things looked different. Then, again, we must remember that Henry was young.

As the luminary swung higher and higher into the sky, Henry felt a strong resentment rising within him. He was beginning to get angry. He felt different in other ways, too. Something was changing inside of him. For the first time in his life he could think of nothing poetic.

“Damn!” he muttered, as he started down-town.

He had not gone far when a limousine drew up suddenly on the Drive near him, and some one from within beckoned to him.

He started with surprise as he recognized Hiram Hardbeck. The resentment flamed higher. He turned away, but Hardbeck called to him.

“What do you want?” asked Henry, with scant courtesy.

“Meyers has been telling me something of that—ah—stock affair, Would you mind letting me see that certificate?”

“It’s over at my room,” answered Henry shortly.

“Won’t you let me drive you over, so we can examine it? It’s for your own good that I’m taking the trouble to talk to you, young man.”

Henry entered the car wonderingly, and gave the address. On the way neither spoke; but Henry did a lot of thinking. The deep, luxurious upholstery only served to increase his growing feeling of dissatisfaction, and his resentment of the haste with which Meyers had rewarded his years of effort the day before by discharging him.

Hiram Hardbeck followed Henry right up to his room.

Henry opened his bookcase, took out the volume of Byron, and produced the stock certificate.

“I suppose you want to buy it?” he asked sarcastically.

“H-m! Southwest Refineries. How did you come to buy this stock, young man?”

“First, because the name of the president of the company is Byron,” said Henry savagely. “I was a little soft on poetry. I say I was a little soft on poetry. That was yesterday. Byron appealed to me particularly. I thought the name on the stock a lucky coincidence.”

Hiram Hardbeck was staring in a very undignified fashion, with his mouth open.

“You mean to say you bought the stock merely because the president’s name was Byron?” he asked incredulously.

“Partly that,” was Henry’s crisp reply, as he smiled grimly. “Partly that, and partly because of the colored border of the certificate. There is the most exquisite shade of purple on the border of that stock certificate that I ever saw!”

Hardbeck gasped.

“A mere detail!” he exploded.

“Oh, is it?” Henry retorted. “Do you know that the biggest thing in this world is color? Have you ever stopped to think what this earth would be if there was no color? Take the neckwear business—the most important thing we’ve got to sell is color. I’ve made a specialty of studying color combinations in shirts and neckwear. There are scores of men in this town who came to me for neckwear just because they had faith in my taste for the proper combinations. The color and pattern of a necktie makes all the difference in the world in a man. I wouldn’t wear that thing you’ve got on for twenty dollars a day!”

Hiram Hardbeck’s face grew livid.

“Look here, young man—”

But Henry was not to be stopped. For the first time in his life he had started. He was going right on through.

“I showed Meyers that stock certificate yesterday afternoon, and told him that if we could get some four-in-hands made up in the shade of purple that’s on that border we would mop up the town with them; but Meyers is too thick-headed to see anything except how cheap he can get the fabrics. He’d wear a yellow ribbon on St. Patrick’s Day, if his wife didn’t look out for him. There’s no reason why we shouldn’t have something the other stores haven’t got. There’s nothing to stop our giving the manufacturers suggestions and getting something exclusive. There’s no reason any knowledge we may have of color combinations and patterns shouldn’t give us something new.” Henry paused. “But I forgot—excuse me for saying ‘we.’ I had overlooked the fact that I am not with you any more.”

“Was that what you were arguing with Meyers about yesterday?” asked Mr. Hardbeck softly.

“That was it. But Meyers wouldn’t buy a purple necktie on a bet. He hasn’t got a decent purple in stock. And that isn’t all he hasn’t got!”

“What are you doing there?” Hardbeck asked. Henry was taking out volumes from the bookcase and removing bills from them. “Is that money?” persisted Hardbeck, astonished.

“No, that ain’t money,” barked Henry. “That’s hard-boiled eggs.”

If any one had been watching Hiram Hardbeck closely, he might have seen what looked suspiciously like a smile. He picked up a small ledger on the table and noted the figures opposite the names of the poets. “Been making a kind of a game of it,” he told himself. “Not a bad saving plan, at that! What are you going to do with it?” he asked aloud, showing interest.

“Well, I’m not going to buy stock with it,” snapped Henry. ” I’m going to put it in a bank. I’m going to start being a little more commercialized. I guess I can stand it. I notice most of those poets went broke because they hated commercialism. I’m even going to commercialize my knowledge of colors—that’s what! I’ve just woke up to myself. I’ve been in a rut; scared to climb out of it. I don’t care if that share of stock isn’t worth a cent! It has been worth a lot of money to me, because it has given me gumption enough to step out and do something for myself!”

There now was no doubt about the smile on Hiram Hardbeck’s face.

“Would you consider selling this stock?” he asked mildly.

Henry’s answer to this seemingly senseless query was something very closely approaching a snort.

“I will give you par for it,” continued the merchant.

“You’ll what?” gasped Henry.

“I say I’ll give you a hundred dollars for it,” replied Hardbeck, who now evidently was enjoying himself.

He was noting, too, with interest, the harmonious blending of color and pattern in Henry’s shirt and tie. His gaze roved to the furnishings of the room—nothing to outrage the eye here.

“Why, the bank teller told me it was worth only two dollars and eighty cents,” Henry ejaculated, not quite so sure of himself.

“No doubt,” agreed Hardbeck; “but, nevertheless, I believe it will be worth a hundred dollars to me.” He actually sneaked a furtive glance down at his own cravat, and then said sternly: “Well, is it a bargain?”

Henry could only nod in amazement.

Mr. Hardbeck laid a hundred-dollar bill upon a copy of Thomas Hood’s poems and pocketed the certificate.

“And that isn’t all, Mr—ah—what is the name? Oh, yes, Till. Well, Mr. Till, I wouldn’t wonder but what there is something in what you say about the haberdashery business. Yes, I believe there’s something in it. Anyway, we are transferring Mr. Meyers to the men’s clothing department on Monday. Mr. Powers, assistant buyer, will take his place. You will report Monday morning to assume your duties as the new assistant buyer of haberdashery.”

Mr. Hardbeck held out his hand. Still speechless with amazement, and something else that throbbed in his throat, Henry took it, and was surprised at its warmth.

“And maybe I’ll let you pick out some ties for me in the future which you would be willing to wear yourself for less than twenty dollars a day,” said Mr. Hardbeck mischievously, as he departed.

Henry dropped into a chair with a fistful of bills, and stared at the bright yellow plumage of the vociferous canary.

“By the way, I bought a share of stock to-day, Mr. Meyers,” confided Hardbeck to his haberdashery manager, while on his afternoon round of the store. He displayed the certificate somewhat absent-mindedly.

Meyers’s eyes popped.

“Why, that’s just like the stock Till was arguing with me about yesterday!”

“Same stock,” said Hardbeck.

“Do you mean to say you bought that stock from Till, Mr. Hardbeck?”

“This morning,” was the answer. “Paid him a hundred dollars for it.”

“Why, Mr. Hardbeck!” Meyers was shocked and grieved. “Why, that stock ain’t listed but only at two-eighty. You’ve—you’ve been cheated!”

“Maybe so,” was the puzzling reply. To himself Hardbeck was saying: “By Jove! We are shy on purples.” He was looking over the neckwear display-racks. “Maybe so,” he continued aloud, as he noted Meyers’s horrified expression with a grim smile; “but you’ll have a hard time proving it to me.”

And he walked cheerfully away, leaving the mystified Meyers to ponder over this strange remark.

VI

Henry was waiting at the employees’ entrance of the great Hardbeck store at closing time that night.

Marjorie came out, a vision of sweet, girlish beauty, but with a little troubled frown above her thick, brown lashes. It deepened for an instant, and then disappeared when she saw Henry.

“We are going to eat dinner downtown,” he said, taking her arm; “and then we are going for a long walk on the Drive.”

She looked up at him quickly. There was a new note of authority in his voice.

“Why, Henry!” she exclaimed tremulously. “You’ve got on your—new—lavender—tie!”