an instant. Where indeed? "A wardrobe-trunk is my home, Mr. Jennings," I replied.
"Oh!" he took it up. "A wardrobe-trunk. Rather a small house for you to develop your individuality in, very freely, I should say!"
"Yes, but at least nothing hangs within its walls but of my own choosing."
"And it's convenient for house-cleaning, too," he followed it up. "But see here, is there room for two in it, because I was just going to ask to call."
"I usually entertain my callers in the garden," I primly announced.
"How delightful! I much prefer gardens." And we laughed again. "Which way?" he abruptly inquired. "Which way to your garden, please?" We had come to a crossing. I stopped, and he beside me.
"Why, I'm sure I don't know!" Nothing about me looked familiar. "These winding streets of yours! I'm afraid I'm lost," I confessed. "You'll have to put me on a car—a Greene Hill Avenue car. I know my way alone then. At least I believe it's a Greene Hill Avenue car. They've just moved there—my sister. Perhaps you know her—Mrs. William Maynard."
"Lucy Maynard!" he exclaimed. "I should say I did! Are you—why, are you her sister?"
He had heard about me then! Of course. How cruel!
"Yes. Why?" I managed to inquire.
"Oh, nothing. Only I've met you," he brought out triumphantly. "I met you at dinner, two or three
