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“Well, Pan,” she said, low-voiced, “you’re running true to form, anyway.” She eyed him appraisingly. “Your appeal is in your virility, I suppose. Yes.”

“My what?”

She rose. “I’ve got to go.”

Panic seized him. “Say, don’t drive back to-night, huh? Wherever it is you’ve got to go. You ain’t driving back to-night?”

She made no answer; parted the bushes, was out on the gravel path in the sunlight, a slim, short-skirted, almost childish figure. He followed. They crossed the bridge, left the island, reached the roadway almost in silence. At the side of the road was a roadster. Its hood was the kind that conceals power. Its lamps were two giant eyes rimmed in precious metal. Its line spelled strength. Its body was foreign. Nick’s engine-wise eyes saw these things at a glance.

“That your car?”

“Yes.”

“Gosh!”

She unlocked it, threw in the clutch, shifted, moved. “Say!” was wrung from Nick helplessly. She waved at him. “Good-bye, Pan.” He stared, stricken. She was off swiftly, silently; flashed around a corner; was hidden by the trees and shrubs.

He stood a moment. He felt bereaved, cheated. Then a little wave of exaltation shook him. He wanted to talk to someone. “Gosh!” he said again. He glanced at his wrist. Five-thirty. He guessed he’d go home. He guessed he’d go home and get one of Ma’s dinners. One of Ma’s dinners and talk to Ma. The Sixty-third Street car. He could make it and back in plenty time.

Nick lived in that section of Chicago known as Englewood, which is not so sylvan as it sounds, but appropriate enough for a faun. Not only that; he lived in S. Green Street, Englewood. S. Green Street, near Seventieth, is almost rural with its great elms and poplars, its frame cottages, its back gardens. A neighbourhood of thrifty, foreign-born fathers and mothers, many children, tree-lined streets badly paved. Nick turned in at a two-story brown frame cottage. He went around to the back. Ma was in the kitchen.

Nick’s presence at the evening meal was an uncertain thing. Sometimes he did not eat at home for a week, excepting only his hurried early breakfast. He rarely spent an evening at home, and when he did used the opportunity for making up lost sleep. Pa never got home from work until after six. Nick liked his dinner early and hot. On his rare visits his mother welcomed him like one of the Gracchi. Mother and son understood each other wordlessly, having much in common. You would not have thought it of her (forty-six bust, forty waist, measureless hips), but Ma was a nymph at heart. Hence Nick.

“Hello, Ma!” She was slamming expertly about the kitchen.

“Hello, yourself,” said Ma. Ma had a line of slang gleaned from her numerous brood. It fell strangely from her lips. Ma had never quite lost a tinge of foreign accent, though she had come to America when a girl. A hearty, zestful woman, savouring life with gusto, undiminished by child-bearing and hard work. “Eating home, Dewey?” She alone used his given name.

“Yeh, but I gotta be back by seven-thirty. Got anything ready?”

“Dinner ain’t, but I’ll get you something. Plenty. Platter ham and eggs and a quick fry. Cherry cobbler’s done. I’ll fix you some.” (Cherry cobbler is shortcake with a soul.)

He ate enormously at the kitchen table, she hovering over him.

“What’s the news, Dewey?”

“Ain’t none.” He ate in silence. Then: “How old was you when you married Pa?”

“Me? Say, I wasn’t no more’n a kid. I gotta laugh when I think of it.”

“What was Pa earning?”

She laughed a great hearty laugh, dipping a piece of bread sociably in the ham fat on the platter as she stood by the table, just to bear him company.

“Say, earn! If he’d of earned what you was earning now, we’d of thought we was millionaires. Time Etty was born he was pulling down thirteen a week, and we saved on it.” She looked at him suddenly, sharply. “Why?”