Someone put on that Tales of Hoffman record, please, with a soft needle. Thanks. Now if you'll turn out all but one bulb in the old rose-shaded electrolier and pass the chocolate marshmallows maybe I'll try to sketch out for you this Lucy Lee-Peyton Pratt version of the sweetest story ever told.

We got Lucy Lee on the bounce, as it were. She really hadn't come all the way up from Atlanta to visit Vee even if they were old boardin'-school chums. No, she was on her way to a house party up in Lenox and was fillin' in the time before that happened by making a duty stay with an old maid aunt who lived on Madison Avenue. But when it develops that Auntie is taking the buttermilk cure for dyspepsia, has grown too deaf to enjoy the theater, and is bugs over manipulatin' the Ouija board, Lucy Lee gets out her address book and begins callin' up old friends.

I don't know how far down Vee was on the list but she seems to be the first one to fall easy. When she hears how bored Lucy Lee is on Madison Avenue she insists on her coming right out with us. So I get my orders to round up Lucy Lee when I'm through at the office and tow her out home. Hence this openin' scene in the taxi where I finds myself being sized up coy and curious.

There's only one way of describin' Lucy Lee. She's a sweet young thing. Nothing big or bouncy about her. No. One of these half-portions. But cute and kittenish from the tip of her double A pumps to the floppy hat brim which only half hides a dangerous pair of eyes.

"So good of you, Mr. Ballard," says she, shootin' over a shy look, "to take all this trouble for poor little me."

"It's a gift," says I. "Comes natural. What about baggage?"

"I've sent a few things by express," says she. "Thank you so much, Mr.—er—Do you know, I've heard such a lot about you from dear Vee that I simply must call you Torchy."

"If it's a case of must," says I, "then go to it."

I'll admit it was a bit sudden, but Lucy Lee is such a chummy young party, and so easy to get acquainted with, that it don't seem odd after the first few times. First off she wants to know all about the baby, and when I've shown her the latest snapshot, and quoted a couple of his bright remarks, translated free, she announces right off that he must be wonderful.

"Simp-ly wonderful!" is Lucy Lee's way of puttin' it, as she gazes admirin' at me.

Course, I don't deny it. Then she wants to know how long we've been living out on Long Island, and what the house is like, and about my work with the Corrugated Trust, and as I give her the details she listens with them big eyes gettin' wider and wider.

"Simp-ly wonderful!" says Lucy Lee.

And somehow, just by workin' that system, she begins to register. First off I was only kind of amused by it. But before we'd driven a dozen blocks I was being rapidly convinced that here, at last, was somebody who really understood. You know how it is. You feel that you're a great strong noble man, so wise in the head that there's no use tryin' to conceal it from eyes like that; and yet so kind and generous that you don't mind talking to any simple young person who might be helped by it.

Oh, yes. A half hour with Lucy Lee and you're apt to need an elastic hat band. You never knew you could reel off such entertainin' chat. Why, without half tryin' I could start that ripply laugh of hers going and get the dimples playin' tag with her blushes. By the time we gets home I feels like a reg'lar guy.

"Cute little thing, ain't she?" I remarks to Vee durin' the forty minute wait while Lucy Lee dresses for dinner.

"Oh, yes," says Vee, with a knowin' smile. "That is her specialty, I believe. She's a dear though, even if she doesn't mean quite all of it."

"Ah, why wake me up!" says I, grinnin'.

It was next mornin' though that I got my big jolt, when an express truck backs up with about a ton of baggage. There was only two wardrobe trunks, a hat trunk, and a steamer trunk, and the men unloads 'em all.

"Hal-lup!" says I, when they staggers in with the last one. "Who's movin' in?"

Seems it's the few little things that Lucy Lee needs for the week-end. "I've told her to send for her maid," says Vee. "It was stupid of me not to think of that before, knowing Lucy Lee."

And later, when I've been called in to help undo the straps, I gets a glimpse of the exhibit. Morning and afternoon frocks in one, evening gowns in another, the steamer trunk full of shoes, besides all the hats.

"Huh!" says I, on the side to Vee. "Carries all her own scenery, don't she? Say, there's enough to outfit a Ziegfeld song revue."

What got the biggest gasp out of me though, was when Lucy Lee unpacks her collection of framed photos and ranges 'em on the mantel and dressin'-table. More'n a dozen, all men.

"You don't mean, Lucy Lee," says Vee, "that these are all—er—on the active list?"

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," says Lucy Lee, springin' the baby stare. "They are simply some of my men friends. For instance, this is dear old Major Knight, who's chairman of some board or other that Daddy is a director on. He is so jolly and is always saying—Well, never mind that. This one is Victor Norris, who tried so hard to get into aviation and was just about to fly when the war had to go and end it. He's a perfectly heavenly dancer. Then there's poor Arthur Kirby, only a secretary to some senator, but such a nice boy. And the one in the naval uniform is Dick—er—Well, I met him at a dinner in Washington just before he got his discharge and he told me so many thrilling things about chasing submarines in the North Sea or—or the Mediterranean or somewhere. Hasn't he nice eyes, though? And this next one——"

Well, I forget the rest for about then I got busy wonderin' how she could keep the run of 'em all without the aid of a card index. But she could. To Lucy Lee life must seem like a parade, she being the given point. Which was where I begun to agree with Vee that there ought to be a fourth plate put on the table, for over Sunday, at least.

"But who'll I get?" I asks.

"Silly!" says Vee. "A man, of course. Any man."

"All right," says I. "I'll try to collect somebody, even if I have to draft Piddie."

Saturday afternoon is apt to be more or less of a busy time at the Corrugated though, so it's near noon before I remembers my promise and begins to look around panicky. No, Mr. Piddie couldn't oblige. He'd planned to take the fam'ly to the Bronx. Sudders, our assistant auditor, was booked for an all day golf orgie. I'd almost decided to kidnap Vincent, our fair-haired office boy with the parlor manners, when I happened to pass through the bond room and gets a glimpse of this Peyton Pratt person lingerin' at his desk. He's diggin' a time-table out of a suitcase.

"Whither away, Peyton?" says I.

"Oh!" says he, sighin' discontented. "I suppose I must run up and spend the day with my married sister in New Haven."

"Why act so tickled over it?" says I.

"But I'm not, really," says Peyton. "It isn't that I am not fond of Ethel, and all that sort of thing. Walter—that's her husband—is a good sort, too, and the children are nice enough. But it's quite a trip to take for such a short visit—and rather expensive, you know. I've just been figuring up."

So he had. There on an office pad he's jotted down every item, including the cost of a ten-word day message and the price of a box of candy for the youngsters. He hadn't sent the wire yet, or bought the candy.

"Got your dinner coat in there?" I asks, noddin' to the suitcase.

He says he has.

"Then listen," says I. "Cross New Haven off the map for this time and lemme put you next to a week-end that won't set you back a nickel. Haven't seen my place out on Long Island yet, have you; or met the new heir to the house of Torchy?"

"Why—why, no, I haven't," hesitates Peyton.

"High time, then," says I. "It'll all be on me, even to lettin' you punch in on my trip ticket. Eh? What say?"

Havin' known Peyton Pratt for some years I could pretty near call the turn. That free round trip ought to be big casino for him. And it was. Course, he protests polite how he couldn't allow me to put up for his fare, and adds that he's heard so much about my charmin' little fam'ly that he can't really afford to miss such a chance.

"Sure you can't!" says I, smotherin' a grin.

Not that Peyton is one of your common cheap skates. That ain't the idea at all. He's a buddin' financier, Peyton is; one of these little-red-notebook heroes, who wear John D. mottoes pasted in their hats and can tell you just how Carnegie or Armour or Shonts or any of them sainted souls laid up their first ten thousand.

He's got all that thrift dope down fine, Peyton has. Why, he don't lick a postage stamp of his own but it gets entered in the little old expense account along with the extra doughnut he plunged on at the dairy lunch. He knows that's the way to win out for he's read it in magazine articles and I'll bet every time he passes the Sub-Treasury he lifts his lid reverent.

I expect it's something Peyton was born to, for his old man was a bank cashier and his two older brothers already have their names up on window grills, he tells me, while an uncle of his is vice-president of an insurance company. So it's no wonder Peyton is a reg'lar coupon hound. His idea of light readin' is to sit down with "Talks to Investors" on one knee and the market report on the other. Give him a forenoon off and he'd spend it down at the Clearing House watchin' 'em strike the daily balance. Uh-huh. The only way he can write U. S. is in a monogram—like this—$$

Not such a bad-lookin' chap though; tall, slim and dark, with a long straight nose and a well-developed chin. Course he's got kind of a bilious indoor complexion, and them thick glasses don't add to his beauty. You can imagine too, that his temperament ain't exactly frivolous. Hardly! Yet he thinks he's a great jollier when he wants to be. Also he likes to have me kid him about bein' such a finicky dresser, for while he never splurges on anything sporty, he's always neat and well dressed.

"Who's the little queen that all this is done for?" I asks him once.

"When I have picked her out I'll let you know, Torchy," says he, blinkin' foxy.

Later on though he tells me all about it confidential. He admits likin' well enough to run around with nice girls when it can be done without danger of being worked for orchestra seats or taxi fares. But there was no sense gettin' in deep with any particular one until a feller was sure of a five figure income, at least.

"Huh!" says I. "Then you got time enough to train one up from the cradle."

"Oh, I don't know," says he. "Anyway, I shall wait until I find one with tastes as simple as my own."

"You may," says I, "and then again—Well, I've seen wiser guys than you rushed off their feet by fluffy young parties whose whole stock in trade was a pair of misbehavin' eyes."

"Pooh!" says Peyton. "I've been exposed to that sort of thing as often as anyone. I think I'm immune."

"Maybe you are," I has to admit.

So as I tows Peyton out to the house that afternoon I kind of hands it to myself that I've filled Vee's order. And there standing on the front veranda admirin' the lilacs is Lucy Lee in one of her plain little frocks—a pink and white check—lookin' as fresh and dainty and inexpensive as a prize exhibit from an orphan asylum.

I whispers to Vee on the side: "Well, you see I got him. Peyton's someone she can practice on, too, and no harm done. He's case hardened."

"Really," says Vee, lookin' him over.

"Admits it himself," says I.

"Oh, well, then!" says Vee, with one of her quizzin' smiles.

And at first it looked like Peyton was about to qualify as an all-'round exempt. He barely seemed to see Lucy Lee. While she was unreelin' the sprightly chatter he was inspectin' the baby, or talkin' with Vee, or askin' fool questions about the garden. Hardly takes a second glance at Lucy Lee. I expect he had her sized up as about sixteen. He could easy make that mistake.

Maybe that's what started her in on this brisk offensive at dinner. Nothing high-school girly about Lucy Lee when she floats down the stairs at 7:15. It's a grown-up evenin' gown she's wearin' this time. No doubt then whether or not she'd had her comin' out. The only question was where she was going to stop comin' out. Not that it wasn't simple enough, but it sure was skimpy above the belt.

After his first gasp you could see Peyton sittin' up and takin' notice. Couldn't very well help it, either, for Lucy Lee sure had the net out. I hadn't noticed them big innocent eyes of hers brought into full play before but now she cuts loose regardless. And Peyton, he is right in range. She's givin' him samples of them Oh-you-great-big-wonderful man looks. You know. And inside of ten minutes Peyton don't know whether he's bein' passed the peas or is being elected second vice-president of something.

And I'd always classed Peyton as a cold storage proposition! You should see the way he thaws out, though. Why, he tells funny stories, throws off repartee, and spreads himself generally. That long sallow face of his got tinted up like he'd had a beauty parlor treatment, and his serious eyes got to sparklin' behind the thick panes.

As for Vee and me, we swapped an amused glance now and then and enjoyed the performance. After the coffee, when Lucy Lee has led him out on the east terrace to see the full moon come up, they just naturally camped down in a swing seat and opened up the confidential chat. By the deep rumble we could tell that Peyton was carryin' the big end of the conversation.

"I know," says I. "Lucy Lee is makin' him tell how he's goin' to have Wall Street eatin' out of his hand some day, and every once in a while she's remarkin': 'Why, Mr. Pratt! I think you're wonderful; simp-ly wonderful!'"

"But I thought you said," puts in Vee, "that he was—er—case hardened?"

"Oh, he's just playin' the game," says I. "Maybe it's gone to his head a little tonight, but when it comes time to duck—You'll see."

One of my pet notions has always been that breakfast time is the true acid test for this romance stuff. Specially for girls. But next morning Lucy Lee shows up in another little gingham effect, lookin' as fresh and smilin' as a bed of tulips. And the affair continues right on from there. It lasts all day and all that evenin' except when Lucy Lee was makin' another quick change, which she does about four times accordin' to my count. And each costume is complete—dress, hat, shoes, stockings all matchin'. The only restless motions Peyton makes, too, are durin' these brief waits.

"Entertainin' young party, eh?" I suggests to him as Lucy Lee does one of her sudden flits.

"A most interesting and charming girl," says Peyton.

"Some class, too. What?" I adds.

"If you mean that she dresses in excellent taste, I agree with you," says he. "Such absolute simplicity, and yet——" Peyton spreads out his hands eloquent. "Why can't all girls do that?" he asks. "It would be—er—such a saving. I've no doubt she makes them all herself."

"If she does," says I, "she must have put in a busy winter."

"Oh, I don't know," says Peyton. "They're all such simple little things. And then, you know—or possibly you don't—that Lucy—er—I mean Miss Vaughn, is a surprisingly capable young woman. Really. There's so much more to her than appears on the surface."

"Tut, tut, Peyton!" says I. "Ain't you gettin' in kind of deep?"

"Don't be absurd, Torchy," says he. "Just because I show a little natural interest in a charming young woman it doesn't follow that——"

"Look!" says I. "Someone's givin' you the come-on signal."

Course, it's Lucy Lee. She's changed to an afternoon costume, sort of an old blue effect with not a frill or a ruffle in sight but with everything toned in, from the spider-webby hat to the suede slippers. And all she has to do to bring Peyton alongside is to tilt her chin invitin'.

We only caught glimpses of 'em the whole afternoon. And that Sunday evenin' the porch swing worked overtime again. I know both Vee and me did a lot of yawnin' before they finally drifts in. I'd never seen Peyton quite so chirky. He even goes so far as to smoke a cigarette. And next mornin', as he leaves reluctant with me to catch the 8:03 express, he stops me at the gate to give me the hearty grip.

"I say, old man," says he husky, "I—I never can tell you how grateful I am for—for what you've done."

"Then let's forget it," says I.

"Forget!" says he, smilin' mushy. "Never!"

At lunch time he asks me which of the Fifth Avenue photographers I think is the best.

"Eh?" says I, grinnin'. "Thinkin' of havin' yourself mugged and sendin' the result to somebody in a silver frame?"

"Well," says he draggy, "I—I've been meaning to have some pictures taken for several years, and now——"

"Got you," says I. "But if you want something real swell let me tow you to a place I know of on Fifty-fifth."

Honest, I wasn't thinking about the Maison Noir at the time or that it was just next door. In fact, it was Peyton himself who stops in front of the show window and grabs me by the arm.

"I say!" says he, pointin' in at the exhibit. "See—see there."

He's pointin' to a display of checked gingham frocks, blue and white and pink and white, with hats to match.

"Yes," says I, "do look sort of familiar, don't they?"

"Why," he goes on, "they're almost exactly like those of—of Lucy's; the same simple lines, the same material and everything."

"Classy stuff," says I. "Come along, though. The picture place is next door, upstairs."

Peyton still stands there gawpin'. "Such a coincidence," he's murmurin'. "I wonder, Torchy, if one could find out about how much they ask for such things in a place like this."

"Easiest thing in the world," says I. "Just blow in and get 'em to give you quotations."

"Oh, but I wouldn't dare do that," says he. "It would seem so—so——"

"Not at all," says I. "As it happens, this joint is one where Vee does more or less shoppin', when she's feelin' flush, and I've often been with her. If you're curious we'll breeze in and get their prices."

Peyton was right there with the curiosity, too. And the lady vamp with the long string of beads danglin' from her neck didn't seem to think it odd for us to be interested in checked ginghams.

"Ah, yes-s-s!" says she, throwin' open the back doors of the show window. "Zey are great bargains, those. Marked down but las' week. Thees wan—m-m-m-m—only $68; but wiz ze hat also, $93."

And the gasp that gets out of Peyton sounds like openin' an airbrake.

"Nine-ty three dollars!" says he. "For a simple little thing like that? Why, that seems to be rather exorbitant!"

"Mais non!" says the lady vamp, shruggin' her shoulders. "They are what you call simple, yes. But they are chic, too. One considers that. Las' week come a young lady from Atlanta who in one hour takes two dozen at once, and more next day. You see!"

Peyton was beginning to see. But he wanted to be dead sure. "From Atlanta?" says he. "Not—not a—a Miss Vaughn?"

"Mais oui!" says Madame, clappin' her hands enthusiastic. "The ver' one. You know her? Yes?"

"I—I thought I did," says Peyton, sort of weak, as he starts for the door.

He calls off the picture proposition. Says he ain't quite in the mood. And all that day he seems to have something on his mind that he couldn't unload. Three or four times he seems to be just on the point of statin' it to me but never can quite get a start. And next day he's a good deal the same. He was like that when I left the office about 4 p.m. to catch an early train. I could about guess what was troublin' him.

So I wasn't much surprised, just before dinner to see Peyton appearin' at our front gate.

"I—I'm sure I don't know what you'll think of me, Torchy," he begins apologizing "but I—I just had to——"

"Too bad!" says I. "You're only four hours late. Lucy Lee left for Lenox on the 2:10."

"Gone!" says he. "But I thought——"

"Yes, she did plan to stay longer," says I, "but it was a bit slow for her here, and when she got a wire that a certain Captain Wright was to be at his sister's for a few days' furlough—Well, inside of an hour she and her maid had packed and were on their way. Oh, yes, and there goes the rest of Lucy Lee's baggage now."

The express truck was just rollin' around from the side door. Peyton stares at the load goggle-eyed. "But—but you don't mean that all of those trunks are hers?" he demands.

"Uh-huh," says I. "I helped strap 'em up. And one of them wardrobes, Peyton, carries about twenty-five of those little checked dresses. The hats go in the square affair, and the shoes in the steamer trunk. Thirty-eight pairs, I believe. Just enough for a week-end. Then in that bulgy-topped trunk——"

But Peyton ain't listenin'. He's just standin' there, with a dazed, stunned look in his eyes like he'd just been missed by an express train. But his lips are movin'. I got the idea. He was doin' mental arithmetic—twenty-five times ninety-three. And he was gettin' a picture of a thousand dollar income lyin' flat on its back.

When he comes to be asks me faint when he can get back to town. No, he won't stay for dinner. "Thank you," says he, "but I couldn't. I'm too much upset. I fear that I—I've made a dreadful mistake, Torchy."

"About Lucy Lee?" says I. "Don't worry. All you've done is come near contributin' another silver frame to her collection. You just happened to find a free field, that's all. Otherwise it would have been a case where you'd stood in line."

Course Peyton don't believe a word of it. He still thinks he's had a desperate affair. He don't know whether he's safe yet or not. All he can see is rows and rows of figures assaultin' that poor little expense book of his. I expect he thinks he's entitled to wear a wound stripe over his heart.

Yesterday we had a bread-and-butter note from Lucy Lee mostly telling what a whale of a time she was havin' up at Lenox.

"Anything about Peyton?" I asks.

"Why, no," says Vee. "But she says the dear captain is——"

"I know," says I. "Simp-ly wonderful."