"Is that Mrs. Emerson your mother? I've grown very fond of her in her visits to the Arcade veranda."
"We must know each other better, if you will," smiled Mrs. Morton as the mother and daughter passed on to greet others.
"Dorothy looks so much like the Ethels that it startles me sometimes," remarked Mr. Emerson, looking after them before some one else claimed his hand.
"Girls of that age all wear their hair in the same fashion so they look like those paper dolls that we used to make in strings out of one piece of paper and put over the electric lights in the nursery."
"Perhaps it is the hair, but their features certainly are alike."
"Poor little Dorothy has a wistful expression that our children don't have, I am glad to say. I'm afraid she and her mother have had a hard time."
"I'm sure we must have shaken hands with at least a hundred thousand Chautauquans," groaned Dr. Hancock; "don't you think we might go over to the Hall of Philosophy and get the United Service Club to minister to our inner men?"
"I believe we've done our duty now; the crowd seems to be lessening; let's escape," and the two gentlemen escorted Mrs. Morton under the lanterns to the fire-lit temple where the members of the United Service Club hailed them, installed them at tables, and did their best to refresh them.
"Will you put my arm in a splint, Doctor?" asked Mr. Emerson, rubbing his shoulder ruefully.
"If you'll do mine. We'll go about like wounded twins!"