Young People\'s Pride
I It is one of Johnny Chipman's parties at the Harlequin Club, and as usual the people the other people have been asked to meet are late and as usual Johnny is looking hesitatingly around at those already collected with the nervous kindliness of an absent-minded menagerie-trainer who is trying to make a happy family out of a wombat, a porcupine, and two small Scotch terriers because they are all very nice and he likes them all and he can't quite remember at the moment just where he got hold of any of them. This evening he has been making an omelet of youngest. K. Ricky French, the youngest Harvard playwright to learn the tricks of C43, a Boston exquisite, impeccably correct from his club tie to the small gold animal on his watch-chain, is almost coming to blows with Slade Wilson, the youngest San Francisco cartoonist to be tempted East by a big paper and still so new to New York that no matter where he tries to take the subway, he always finds himself buried under Times Square, over a question as to whether La Perouse or Foyot's has the best _hors-d'oeuvres_ in Paris. The conflict is taking place across Johnny's knees, both of which are being used for emphasis by the disputants till he is nearly mashed like a
vision that made her faint with anguish.
Some one entered the room with a brisk little trot; Millicent opened
her eyes and turned her head. A small woman, "old maid" from the top
of her neat gray head to the toe of her list shoes, came forward. She
held a pad and pencil and wore the badge of authority in her manner.
At sight of Millicent she paused, blinking behind her glasses.
Millicent came slowly out of her trance; recognition dawned upon her.
She rose.
"Miss Hayter--Aunt Harriet!" she cried, advancing.
"It is you, then!" chirped the elder lady. "My dear, who could have
expected this?"
"Not I, for one!" She held both Miss Hayter's hands. "I had no idea
you were here. Surely you haven't given up your beloved Boston
school?"
"Oh no. Only in the summer I come here for a month and substitute for
the regular curator while she is on her vacation. It"--she struggled
against a constitutional distaste for self-revelation--"it seems like
a little visit with Will, somehow."
Millicent's throat throbbed with a strangled sob. No one had spoken
his name in so long! Her people had had no interest but to banish the
I It is one of Johnny Chipman's parties at the Harlequin Club, and as usual the people the other people have been asked to meet are late and as usual Johnny is looking hesitatingly around at those already collected with the nervous kindliness of an absent-minded menagerie-trainer who is trying to make a happy family out of a wombat, a porcupine, and two small Scotch terriers because they are all very nice and he likes them all and he can't quite remember at the moment just where he got hold of any of them. This evening he has been making an omelet of youngest. K. Ricky French, the youngest Harvard playwright to learn the tricks of C43, a Boston exquisite, impeccably correct from his club tie to the small gold animal on his watch-chain, is almost coming to blows with Slade Wilson, the youngest San Francisco cartoonist to be tempted East by a big paper and still so new to New York that no matter where he tries to take the subway, he always finds himself buried under Times Square, over a question as to whether La Perouse or Foyot's has the best _hors-d'oeuvres_ in Paris. The conflict is taking place across Johnny's knees, both of which are being used for emphasis by the disputants till he is nearly mashed like a