"Not running away because I'm home, are you?" His round face beamed on them. He smelled of the fresh outdoors, and of strong cigars, and of a vaguely masculine something that was a blending of business office and barber's lotion and overcoat. The Reading Club scented it, sensitively. Celia came over to him swiftly, there in the little hall, and slid one arm about his great waist. A plump man, Orville, with a round, kindly, commonplace face. He patted her silken shoulder. She faced the Reading Club defiantly, triumphantly. "What have you girls been talking about, h'mm?" Orville laughed a tolerant chuckling laugh. "You girls. Settled the war yet?"
Beck Schaefer threw up her chin a little. "We've been talking about you, if you really want to know."
He reeled. "Oh, my God! Cele, did you take the old man's part?"
Celia moved away from him then a little, her face flushing. Constraint fell upon the group. Lottie Payson stepped over to him then and put one hand on his broad shoulder. "She didn't need to take your part, Orville. We were all for you."
"Except me!" shrilled Beck.
"Oh, you!" retorted Orville, heavily jocular. "You're jealous." He rubbed his chin ruefully. "Wait till I've shaved, Beck, and I'll give you a kiss to make you happy."
"Orville!" But Celia's bearing was again that of the successful matron—the fortunate beloved woman.
Beck Schaefer took the others home in her electric. Lottie, seized with a sudden distaste for the glittering enamelled box elected to walk, though she knew it would mean being late.
"Figger?" Beck Schaefer asked, settling her own plump person in the driver's seat.
"Air," Lottie answered, not altogether truthfully; and drew a long breath. She turned away from the curb. The electric trundled richly off, its plate glass windows filled with snugly tailored shoulders, furs, white gloves, vivid hats. Lottie held one hand high in farewell, palm, out, as the glittering vehicle sped silently away, lurched fatly around a corner and was gone.