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When she heard Michael’s step in the hall she turned her head and listened; she liked to hear him walk, carefully always as if there were children sleeping close by.

“Michael.”

“Oh—hello.” He came into the room, a tall, broad, thin man of thirty with a high forehead and kind black eyes.

“I’ve got some news for you,” he said immediately. “Charley Hart’s getting married.”

“No!”

He nodded.

“Who’s he marrying?”

“One of the little Lawrence girls from home.” He hesitated. “She’s arriving in New York tomorrow and I think we ought to do something for them while she’s here. Charley’s about my oldest friend.”

“Let’s have them up for dinner—”

“I’d like to do something more than that,” he interrupted. “Maybe a theatre party. You see—” Again he hesitated. “It’d be a nice courtesy to Charley.”

“All right,” agreed Marion, “but we mustn’t spend much—and I don’t think we’re under any obligation.”

He looked at her in surprise.

“I mean,” went on Marion, “we—we hardly see Charley anymore. We hardly ever see him at all.”