The Adamses hadn't been in the neighborhood two weeks before Sadie's discovered Veronica and was ravin' over her. "Isn't she perfectly stunning, Shorty?" she demands.

"Now that you mention it, I expect she is," says I, playin' safe and foxy. It's a useful phrase to pull in such cases; but here was once when I must have worked it overtime. Sadie sniffs.

"Pooh!" says she. "Just as though you couldn't see for yourself! Don't be absurd, Shorty."

"Gee! but you're hard to suit!" says I. "If I remember right, the last time I got enthusiastic over the looks of a young queen you wrinkled your nose and made remarks about my taste."

"It was that snippy little Marjorie Lowry with the baby face, wasn't it?" says she. "Oh, very well, if you prefer that kind. Just like a man!"

"Do I have to pick either one?" says I. "I hope not; for, between you and me, Sadie, I'm satisfied as it stands."

"Goose!" says she, snugglin' up forgivin'. "And—would you guess it?—they say she's twenty-six! I wonder why she isn't married?"

"There you go!" says I. "I could see it comin'."

"But she is such an attractive girl," goes on Sadie, "so well poised, graceful, dignified, all that! And she has such exquisite coloring, and such charming manners!"

Yep, I guess it was all so. One of these wavin' palm models, Veronica was,—tall and willowy, with all the classy points of a heroine in a thirty-five-cent magazine serial,—dark eyes, dark, wavy hair, good color scheme in her cheeks,—the whole bag of tricks,—and specially long on dignity. Say, she had me muffled from the first tap of the bell, and you know how apt I am to try to break that sort of spell with a few frivolous cracks. Not when Veronica swings on me with that calm gaze of hers, though!

For Sadie don't do a thing but call on the Adamses, give a tea for Veronica, and proceed to round up all the Johnnies in sight to meet her. It's her reg'lar campaign, you know.

"Ah, why not let the poor girl alone?" says I. "Maybe she's got one in trainin' somewhere herself. There's no tellin', too, but what she's stayin' single from choice."

"Humph!" says Sadie. "Only the homely ones are entitled to give that excuse, because they have no other; and only a stupid man would believe it in either case. I suppose Miss Adams hasn't married because the right man hasn't asked her. Sometimes they don't, you know. But it's a perfect shame, and if I can help the right one to find her I'm going to do it."

"Sure you are," says I. "That's the skirt instinct. But, say, while the men still have the vote all to themselves they ought to revise the game laws by declarin' a close season on bachelors, say from the fifteenth of August to the fifteenth of December."

"Too bad about the young men, isn't it?" says Sadie. "Anyone would think we set traps for them."

"Show me a trap easier to fall into and harder to get out of," says I, "and I'll make my fortune by puttin' it on the market as a new puzzle. But blaze ahead. I ain't worryin'. I'm on the inside lookin' out, anyway. Wish a hubby on her if you can."

And I must say it ain't any amateur effort Sadie puts over. From far and near she rounds 'em up on one excuse or another, and manages to have 'em meet Veronica. She don't take 'em miscellaneous or casual, like she would for most girls. I notices that she sifts 'em out skillful, and them that don't come somewhere near the six-foot mark gets the gate early in the game. You catch the idea? Course, nobody would expect Veronica to fall for any stunted Romeo that would give her a crick in the back when it come to nestlin' her head on his shoulder.

So with size added to the other elimination tests it must have made hard scratchin' at times. But somehow or other Sadie produces a dozen or more husky young chaps with good fam'ly connections and the proper financial ratin's. Among 'em was a polo player, two ex-varsity fullbacks, and a blond German military aide that she borrowed from a friend in Washington for the occasion. She tries 'em out single and in groups, using Mrs. Purdy-Pell's horseshow box and town house as liberal as railroad waitin' rooms. And, say, when it comes to arrangin' chance tÊte-À-tÊtes, and cozy little dinner parties where the guests are placed just right, she develops more ingenuity than a lady book agent runnin' down her victims. Talk about shifty work! She makes this fly-and-spider fable sound clumsy.

Course, she had a cinch in one way. All she has to do is exhibit Veronica in some public place, and she has every man in sight twistin' his neck. They dropped for her at the first glimpse. It didn't need any elaborate scenic effects to cause a stampede, either; for the simpler she gets herself up the more dangerous she is, and in a plain black velvet dress, with an old lace collar cut a little low in front, all she lacks is a gold frame and a number to look like a prize portrait at the National Academy. Say, I ain't got much of an eye that way myself, but the first time I saw her in that rig I held my breath for two minutes on a stretch, and just gawped.

Another thing that helped was the fact that Veronica could sing,—no common parlor warblin', mind you, of such pieces as "The Rosary" or "Land of the Sky Blue Water," but genuine operatic stuff, such as you hear Louise Homer and Schumann-Heink shootin' on the three-dollar records. Why not? Hadn't Veronica studied abroad for two years under Parcheesi, who'd begged her almost on his knees to do the title rÔle in a new opera he was goin' to try out before the King of Bavaria? Uh-huh! We had that straight from Mrs. Adams, who wa'n't much for boostin' the fam'ly. But no stagework for her!

In private, though, Veronica was good-natured and obligin'; so it was an easy after-dinner cue for a young gent to lead her to the piano and persuade her to tear off a few little operatic gems, while he leaned on one elbow and gazed soulful at her. And I expect they didn't have to know such a lot about grand opera to play the leanin' part, either.

Just how much tumult was caused under dress shirt fronts durin' them few weeks I couldn't say for certain, but at least four or five of the young gents had bad attacks. The odd thing about it, though, was the sudden way they dropped out. One day they'd be sendin' her flowers, and followin' her around to teas and lunches and dances, gazin' longin' at her every chance they got, and displayin' the usual mush symptoms, and the next they wouldn't show up at all. They'd disappeared.

That's what puzzled Sadie so much at first. She couldn't make out what had happened,—whether they'd got rash and gone on the rug too soon, or had been run over by a truck while crossin' the street. Fin'ly she comes across one of the quitters one afternoon as I'm towin' her down Fifth-ave. on her way home from somewhere, and she puts me up to give him the quiz.

"There, Shorty!" says she, stoppin' sudden. "There's Monty Willetts, who was so crazy about Veronica. No one has seen him for a week. Couldn't you ask if anything serious has happened to him?"

I expect her idea was for me to put him through the third degree so subtle he wouldn't suspect. Well, leavin' Sadie gazin' into a jew'lry window, I overhauls him and does my best.

"Say, Monty," says I, jabbin' him playful in the ribs, "how about you and that Miss Adams? Did you follow her to the frost line, or what?"

"That's an excellent way to put it, McCabe," says he. "And I'm chilly yet from the experience."

"Sporty lad!" says I. "Did you try to hold her hand, or something like that?"

"What!" he gasps. "Try to hold hands with the stately Miss Adams? Heaven forbid! I'm not absolutely reckless, you know. It was in our first confidential chat that I went on the rocks. We'd discussed polo for half an hour, until I found she knew more about the English team than I did. Why, she'd visited at Hurlingham House during the practice matches. So I floundered about, trying to shift the subject, until we hit on antique vases—deuced if I know why. But my Governor dabbled in such junk a bit, you know, and I suppose I thought, from having heard him talk, that I was up on antiques. But, say, hanged if she couldn't name more kinds than I ever knew existed! Rippled on about Pompeian art, and Satsuma ware, and Egyptian tear jugs as readily as Ted Keefe, my stable manager, would about ponies. I tried again and asked if she'd seen many of the new plays, and the next thing I knew I was bluffing through a dialogue about Galsworthy and Masefield and Sudermann on an experience strictly limited to musical comedies and Belasco's latest. Whe-e-e-ew! I made my escape after that. Say, isn't it a shame a girl with eyes like hers should know so blamed much?"

I couldn't help grinnin' at Monty, and when I picks up Sadie again I gives her the diagnosis.

"Case of springin' the highbrow chatter on a sportin' chappy that wears a fifteen and a half collar and a six and three-quarters hat," says I. "He's as thankful as if he'd come through a train wreck with his cigarette still lighted. You ought to tip Veronica to chop her lines and work the spell with her eyes."

"Pooh!" says Sadie. "Monty never had a chance, anyway. You can't expect a brilliant girl like Veronica to be satisfied with a husband who's at his best only when he's knocking a goal or leading a hunt, even if he is big and handsome."

But with this as a clew I figured out how two or three of the other candidates came to side-step so abrupt. The average Johnny is all right so long as the debate is confined to gossipy bits about the latest Reno recruits, or who's to be asked to Mrs. Stuyve Fish's next dinner dance; but cut loose on anything serious and you have him grabbin' for the lifeline.

There was two, though, that came through to the finals, as you might say. One was this German guy, Baron DÜsseldorf; and the other was young Beverley Duer, whose fad is takin' movin' pictures of wild animals in their native jungles and givin' private movie shows in the Plaza ballroom. Some strong on the wise conversation himself, Beverley is. He paints a bit, plays the 'cello pretty fair, has a collection of ivory carvin's, and has traveled all over the lot. You can't faze him with the snappy repartee, either; for that's his specialty.

As for the Baron, his long suit was listenin'. He was a bear for it. He'd sit there, big and ornamental, with his light blue eyes glued on Veronica, takin' it all in as fast as she could feed it to him, and lookin' almost intelligent. Course, when he did try a comeback in English he chopped his words up comic; but he could speak four other languages, and Veronica seemed pleased enough to find someone she could practice her French and German on.

For awhile there I'd have picked either of the two as a winner; only I couldn't just make up my mind which would get the decision. But somehow the affair don't seem to progress the way it should. Each one appeared to get about so far, and then stick. They both seemed anxious enough too; but just as one would take an extra spurt Veronica would somehow cool him down. She didn't seem to be playin' one against the other, either. Looked like careless work to me. Sadie gets almost peeved with her.

Then one night at our house a lot of the mystery was cleared up by some friendly joshin' across the dinner table. We had all the Adamses there that evenin',—Pa Adams, a tall, dignified, white-whiskered old sport, who looked like he might have been quite a gay boy in his day; Mother, a cheery, twinklin'-eyed, rather chubby old girl; and Veronica, all in white satin and dazzlin' to look at. Also Sadie had asked in Miss Prescott, an old maid neighbor of ours, who's so rich it hurts, but who's as plain and simple as they come. She's a fruit preservin' specialist, and every fall her and Sadie gets real chummy over swappin' cannin' receipts.

About five P.M., though, Miss Prescott 'phones over her regrets, sayin' how her nephew had arrived unexpected; so of course she gets the word to bring Dudley Byron along with her. Emerson, his last name is, and while I hadn't seen much of him lately we'd been more or less friendly when he was takin' special post-graduate work at some agricultural college and was around home durin' vacations. An odd, quiet chap, Dudley Byron, who never figured much anywhere,—one of the kind you can fill in with reckless and depend on not to make a break or get in the way. He's a slim, sharp-faced young gent, with pale hair plastered down tight, and deep-set gray eyes that sort of wander around aimless.

It might have been kind of dull if it hadn't been for the Adamses; but Veronica and her Pa are lively enough to wake up any crowd. They're gen'rally jollyin' each other about something. This time what started it was someone remarkin' about a weddin' that was to be pulled off soon, and how the bride was to be the last of five daughters.

"Fortunate parent!" says Pa Adams. "Five! And here I've been unable to get rid of one."

"You didn't begin early enough," comes back Veronica. "Do you know, Mrs. McCabe, when I was nineteen Daddy used to be so afraid I would be stolen away from him that he would almost lie in wait for young men with a shotgun. After I passed twenty-four he began meeting them at the gate with a box of cigars in one hand and a shaker full of cocktails in the other."

Pa Adams joins in the laugh. "It's quite true," says he. "For the last two or three years Mother and I have been doing our best to marry her off. We gave up the United States as hopeless, and carted her all over Europe. No use. Even younger sons wouldn't have her. Now we're back again, trying the dodge of staying longer in one place. But I fail to see any encouraging signs."

"I'm sure I've tried to do my part too," says Veronica, smilin' gay. "I really shouldn't mind being married. My tastes are wholly domestic. But, dear me, one must find somewhere near the right sort of man, you know! And so far——" She ends with a shrug of her white shoulders and a puckerin' of her rosy lips.

"Poor Baron!" sighs Sadie, teasin'.

"I know," says Veronica. "And what a big, handsome creature he is too! But I fear I'm not equal to carrying on a lifelong monologue."

"Surely that wouldn't be the case with Beverley Duer," suggests Sadie.

"Isn't he entertaining!" says Veronica enthusiastic. "But wouldn't it be a bit selfish, appropriating all that brilliance just for oneself? And could it be done? I'm afraid not. About once a month, I imagine, Beverley would need a new audience. Besides—well, I'm sure I don't know; only I don't seem thrilled in the way I ought to be."

With chat like that bein' batted back and forth, I expect I wa'n't takin' much notice of Dudley Byron, who's sittin' quiet between me and Aunty; but all of a sudden he leans over and whispers eager:

"Isn't she perfectly splendid, though?"

"Eh?" says I, tearin' myself away from what's still goin' on at the other end of the table. "Oh! Miss Adams? Sure, she's a star."

"I—I would like to know her better," says Dudley, sort of plaintive.

"Crash in, then," says I. "No opposition here."

I thought I was bein' humorous; for Dudley's about as much of a lady's man as he is a heavy shot putter. I never knew of his lookin' twice at a girl before; but to-night he seems to be makin' up for lost time. All durin' the rest of the meal he does the steady, admirin' gaze at Veronica. He don't try to hide it, either, but fixes them gray eyes of his her way and neglects to eat five perfectly good courses. When we adjourns to the livin' room for coffee he keeps it up too. Couldn't have been much suddener if he'd been struck by lightnin'.

I don't know how many others noticed it, but it was as plain as day to me that Dudley Byron is on the point of makin' a chump of himself. I begun to feel kind of sorry for him too; for he's a decent, well meanin' young chap. So I edges around where I can get a word with him on the side.

"Come out of the trance, Dudley," says I.

"I—I beg pardon?" says he, startin' guilty.

"You'll only get your wings singed," says I. "Forget Veronica while there's a chance."

"But I don't wish to forget her," says he. "She—she's beautiful."

"Ah, what's the use?" says I. "She's mighty particular too."

"She has every right to be," says Dudley. "What delicious coloring! What a carriage! She has the bearing of a Queen."

"Maybe," says I. "But wouldn't you rattle around some on a throne? Keep that in mind, Dudley."

"Yes, yes," says he. "I suppose I must remember how unimpressive I am."

He's an easy forgetter that evenin', though. When Sadie suggests that Miss Adams favor us, blessed if it ain't Dudley who's right there doin' the music turnin' act. I wonder how many others has struck that same pose, and lost good sleep thinkin' it over afterwards? But never a one, I'll bet, that looked like such a hopeless starter.

He seemed to be enjoyin' it as much as any, though. And afterwards, when the other four settles themselves around the card table for the usual three rubbers, blamed if Dudley don't have the nerve to tow Veronica into the next room, stretchin' on tiptoe to talk earnest in her ear.

I could guess what it was all about. Veronica had a nice way of soundin' people for their pet hobbies, and she must have got Dudley started on his; for it's the only subject I ever knew him to get real gabby over. And you'd never guess from his looks what it was. Farmin'!

Course he ain't doin' the reg'lar Rube kind,—hay and hogs, hogs and hay. He goes at it scientific,—one of these book farmers, you understand. Establishin' model farms is his fad. Dudley told me all about it once,—intensive cultivation, soil doctorin', harvestin' efficiency, all such dope, with a cost-bearin' side line to fall back on in the winter.

Not that he needs the money, but he says he wants to keep busy and make himself useful. So his scheme is to buy up farms here and there, take each one in turn, put it on a payin' basis by studyin' the best stuff to raise and gettin' wise to the market, and then showin' his neighbors how to turn the trick too. No rollin' out at four A.M. to milk the cows for Dudley! He hires a good crew at topnotch wages, and puts in his time plannin' irrigatin' ditches, experimentin' with fertilizers, doin' the seed testin', and readin' government reports; even has a farm bookkeeper.

Then when cold weather comes, instead of turnin' off his help, he springs his side line,—maybe workin' up the wood lot into shippin' crates, or developin' a stone quarry. Last I heard he was settin' out willows he'd imported from Holland, and was growin' and makin' fancy veranda furniture. He's rung in a whole town on the deal, and they was all gettin' a good thing out of it. Establishing community industries, is the way Dudley puts it. Says every jay burg ought to have one of its own.

Most likely this was what he was so busy explainin' to Veronica. He's a good talker when he gets started too, and for such a quiet appearin' chap he can liven up a lot. Must have been goin' into the details deep with her; for they don't come back—and they don't come back. I'd read the evenin' papers, and poked up the log fire half a dozen times, and stood around watchin' the bridge game until I nearly yawned my head off; but they're still missin'.

I'd just strolled around into the front hall, kind of scoutin' to see if he'd talked her to sleep, or whether she'd come back at him with some brainy fad of her own and was givin' him the chilly spine, when out through the door dashes Dudley Byron, runnin' his fingers through his hair desperate and glarin' around wild.

"Aha!" says I. "So you got it too, did you?"

"McCabe," says he, hoarse and husky, "I—I've done a dreadful thing!"

"Why, Dudley!" says I. "I can't believe it."

"But I have," says he, clawin' me on the shoulder. "Oh, I—I've disgraced myself!"

"How?" says I. "Called some German composer out of his right name, or what?"

"No, no!" says he. "I—I can't tell you."

"Eh?" says I, starin' puzzled. "Well, you'd better."

"True, I'm your guest," says he. "But—but I forgot myself."

"Ah, cheer up," says I. "Veronica's a good sport. She wouldn't mind if you let slip a cussword."

"Oh, you don't understand," says Dudley, wringin' his hands. "Really, I have done something awful!"

"Come, come!" says I. "Let's have it, then."

"Believe me," says he, "I was carried away, quite intoxicated."

"Gwan!" says I. "Where'd you get the stuff?"

"I mean," says he, "by her wonderful beauty. And then, McCabe, in one moment I—I kissed her!"

"Great guns!" says I. "Didn't plant a reg'lar smack, did you?"

He bows his head solemn. "Right on the lips," says he. "You see, we were talking, her lovely face was very close, her glorious eyes were shining into mine, when suddenly—well, it seemed as if I became dizzy, and the next moment I seized her brutally in my arms and—and——"

"Good night!" says I, gaspin'. "What did she hit you with?"

"I—I can't say exactly what happened next," says Dudley. "I think I dropped her and ran out here."

"Of all the boob plays!" says I. "To take a Brodie plunge like that, and then do the fade-away!"

"But what must I do now?" groans Dudley. "Oh, what can I do?"

"Is she still in there?" says I.

"I—I suppose so," says he.

"Well, so far as I can see," says I, "you got to go back and apologize."

"What! Now?" says he.

"Before she has time to sick the old man on you with a gun," says I.

"Yes, yes!" says he. "Not that I am afraid of that. I wish he would shoot me! I hope someone does! But I suppose I ought to beg her pardon."

"In with you, then!" says I, leadin' him towards the door.

With his hand on the knob he balks. "Oh, I can't!" says he. "I simply cannot trust myself. If I should try, if I should find myself close to her once more. McCabe, I—I might do it all over again."

"Say, look here, Dudley!" says I. "This ain't a habit you're breakin' yourself of, you know: it's just a single slip you've got to apologize for."

"I know," says he; "but you cannot imagine how madly in love with her I am."

"I'm glad I can't," says I.

And, say, he sticks to it. No, Sir, I can't push him in there with Veronica again. I had him out on the front steps for fifteen minutes, tryin' to argue some sense into him; but all he wants to do is go jump off the rocks into the Sound and have me tell Aunty he died disgraced but happy. Fin'ly, though, he agrees to wait while I go sleuthin' in and find whether Veronica has rushed in tears to Daddy, or is still curled up on the davenport bitin' the cushions in rage.

I slips into the livin' room, where I find 'em addin' up the scores and talkin' over the last hand, but otherwise calm and peaceful. Then I opens the door soft into the next room, steps in, and shuts the door behind me. No wild sobs. No broken furniture. There's Veronica, rockin' back and forth under the readin' light, with a book in her lap.

"Well?" says I, waitin' breathless for the storm to break.

She gives a little jump, glances up quick, and pinks up like a poppy. "Oh!" says she, "It's you?"

"Uh-huh," says I. "I—er—I've just been talkin' with Dudley."

"Ye-e-es?" says she, rollin' a leaf of the book over her finger nervous and droopin' her long lashes.

"You see," says I, fidgetin' some on my own account, "he—he's goin' home in a minute or two."

"Oh, is he?" says she. "There! And I meant to ask him if he wouldn't call to-morrow. Won't you do it for me, Mr. McCabe?"

How about that for a reverse jolt, eh? I backs out of the room lookin' foolish. And Dudley he near collapses when I brings him the glad news.

As for Sadie, she couldn't believe me at all when I tells her Dudley looks like a sure winner. She had to wait until a few days later when she catches 'em just breakin' a clinch, before she'll admit I ain't stringin' her.

"But a shy, diffident fellow like Dudley!" says she. "I don't see how he did it."

"Neither does Dudley," says I. "Guess it must have been a case of a guy with the goods comin' across with the swift tackle. Maybe that's what she'd been waitin' for all along."