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“You might telephone for a plumber from San Francisco?” suggested Anthony, afterthought.

“Yes, I could do that.” Miss Mix brightened. “No, I can’t, either,” she lamented. “Elsie White, the long-distance operator, is working for Joe Bates, too.” She meditated again for a space, then raised her head, listening. “They’re calling me!” she whispered.

With a gesture for silence, she sprang to the door. Outside, some one shouted:

“O Sally!”

“Hello, Tony!” she called hardily, in answer. “Lunch, is it? No, don’t come down! I’m just coming up!”

With a warning glance over her shoulder for Anthony, she closed the door and was gone.

III

A long hour followed, the silence broken only by occasional low comments from the chickens, and by voices and footsteps coming and going on the side of the chicken house where the street lay. Anthony, his back against the rough wall, his hands in his pockets, had fallen into a smiling revery when Miss Mix suddenly returned. She carried a plate of luncheon, and two files.

“We are safe!” she reassured him. “The boys think I am playing bridge, and I’ve locked the gate on the inside. Now, files on parade!”

She tucked the filmy skirts of her white frock about her, sat down on a box, and began to grate away his bonds without an instant’s delay. Her warm, smooth hands he found very charming to watch. Loose strands of hair fell across her flushed, smooth cheek. Anthony attacked his lunch with sudden gayety.

“How much we have to talk about!” he said, observing contentedly that five minutes’ filing made almost no impression upon his chains. She colored suddenly, but met his eyes with charming gravity.

“Haven’t we?” she assented simply.

“Why, no, it won’t break his heart, Mr. Fox. I think he’ll even be a little relieved to be able to go on serenely with the Peppers and the Rogerses. He’s having lovely times there!”

“Oh, if his mother had lived, of course I should have written to her; but I knew you were a very busy man, Mr. Fox. Tony hardly ever speaks of his Aunt Fanny. She’s a great club woman, I know. So I had to do the best I could.”

“Why, I didn’t think much about it, I suppose. But I certainly should have said that Tony’s father was more than forty-five!”

“Ye-es, I suppose it might. But–but what a very funny subject for us to get on! I suppose–look at that white hen coming in, Mr. Fox! She’s my prize winner. Isn’t she a beauty?”

“Yes, indeed, he’s all of that, dear old Tony! And then, as I say, he reminded me of–of that other, you know, years ago. I was only nineteen, hardly more than a child, but the memory is very sweet, and it made me want to be a good friend to Tony!”

“There’s the six o’clock bell, and you’re all but free! Now, I’ll let you out by this door, on the street side, and you can find your hotel? Then, when you call this evening, we needn’t say anything of this. It hasn’t been such a long afternoon, has it?”

Just after dinner, as Miss Mix and her youthful fiance were sitting on the porch in the spring twilight, a visitor entered the garden from the street. At sight of him, the boy sprang to his feet with a cry of “Dad!”

Miss Mix was introduced, and to young Tony’s delight, she and his father chatted as comfortably as old friends. Presently, when Jerry Billings appeared with an invitation for the lady to accompany him to the post office for possible mail, father and son were left alone together.

Young Anthony beamed at his father’s praise of his choice, but his comments seemed to come more easily on other matters. He told his father of the Rogers boys, of the Pepper girls, and of tennis and theatricals, and spoke hopefully of a possible camping trip with these friends.

“When did you think of announcing your engagement, Bud?”