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there was nothing subtle about Perry’s kisses—fell on her ear instead of her cheek.

At the very moment Perry kissed her and before her indignant protest could rush to her lips two things happened. A gust of wind swept in from the verandah and blew the little candle out, and the dining-room door opened and Aunt Ruth appeared in the doorway, robed in a pink flannel nightgown and carrying another candle, the light of which struck upward with gruesome effect on her set face with its halo of crimping-pins.

This is one of the places where a conscientious biographer feels that, in the good old phrase, her pen cannot do justice to the scene.

Emily and Perry stood as if turned to stone. So, for a moment, did Aunt Ruth. Aunt Ruth had expected to find Emily there, writing, as she had done one night a month previously when Emily had had an inspiration at bedtime and had slipped down to the warm dining-room to jot it in a Jimmy-book. But this! I must admit it did look bad. Really, I think we can hardly blame Aunt Ruth for righteous indignation.

Aunt Ruth looked at the unlucky pair.

“What are you doing here?” she asked Perry.

Stovepipe Town made a mistake.

“Oh, looking for a round square,” said Perry off-handedly, his eyes suddenly becoming limpid with mischief and lawless roguery.

Perry’s “impudence”—Aunt Ruth called it that, and, really, I think he was impudent—naturally made a bad matter worse. Aunt Ruth turned to Emily.

“Perhaps you can explain how you came to be here, at this hour, kissing this fellow in the dark?”

Emily flinched from the crude vulgarity of the question as if Aunt Ruth had struck her. She forgot how much appearances justified Aunt Ruth, and let a perverse spirit enter into and possess her. She lifted her head haughtily.

“I have no explanation to give to such a question, Aunt Ruth.”