scantily furnished in rickety mahogany. There, close beside the hard-coal burner, sat Bayliss Wheeler. He did not rise when they entered, but said, “Hello, folks,” in a rather sheepish voice. On a little table, beside Mrs. Farmer’s workbasket, was the box of candy he had lately taken out of his overcoat pocket, still tied up with its gold cord. A tall lamp stood beside the piano, where Gladys had evidently been practising. Claude wondered whether Bayliss actually pretended to an interest in music! At this moment Gladys was in the kitchen, Mrs. Farmer explained, looking for her mother’s glasses,—mislaid when she was copying a recipe for a cheese soufflé.
“Are you still getting new recipes, Mrs. Farmer?” Enid asked her. “I thought you could make every dish in the world already.”
“Oh, not quite!” Mrs. Farmer laughed modestly and showed that she liked compliments. “Do sit down, Claude,” she besought of the stiff image by the door. “Daughter will be here directly.”
At that moment Gladys Farmer appeared.
“Why, I didn’t know you had company, Mother,” she said, coming in to greet them.
This meant, Claude supposed, that Bayliss was not company. He scarcely glanced at Gladys as he took the hand she held out to him.
One of Gladys’ grandfathers had come from Antwerp, and she had the settled composure, the full red lips, brown eyes, and dimpled white hands which occur so often in Flemish portraits of young women. Some people thought her a trifle heavy, too mature and positive to be called pretty, even though they admired her rich, tulip-like complexion. Gladys never seemed aware that her looks and her poverty and her extrava-
