The House of Torchy. Ford Sewell

says Judith. "Bert, come here."

      It's a case of old boardin'-school friends who'd lost track of each other. Quite a stunner, young Mrs. Nixon is, too, and Bert is a good match for her. The two girls hold quite a reunion, with us men standin' around lookin' foolish.

      "We're living in Springfield, you know," goes on Judith, "where Bert is helping to build another munition plant. Just ran up to spend the week-end with Auntie. You've met her, of course?"

      "We—we haven't met anyone," says Vee.

      "Why, how funny!" exclaims Mrs. Nixon. "Please come over right now."

      "My dear," says Auntie, pattin' Vee chummy on the hand, "we have all been wondering who you two young people were. I knew you must be nice, but—er—— Come, won't you join us at this table? We'll make just a splendid little family party. Now do!"

      Oh, yes, we did. And after dinner I'll be hanged if we ain't introduced to almost everybody in the hotel. It's a reg'lar reception, with folks standin' in line to shake hands with us. The old boy with the eye awnin's turns out to be an ex-Secretary of the Treasury; an antique with a patent ear-'phone has been justice of some State Supreme Court; and so on. Oh, lots of class to 'em. But after I'd been vouched for by someone they knew they all gives me the hearty grip, offers me cigars, and hopes I'm enjoyin' my stay.

      "And so you are a niece of dear Mrs. Hemmingway?" says old Parrot-Face, when her turn comes. "Think of that! And this is your husband!" And then she says how nice it is that some other young people will be up in the mornin'.

      That evenin' Judith gets busy plannin' things to do next day.

      "You haven't tried the toboggan chute?" says she. "Why, how absurd!"

      Yep, it was a big day, Saturday was. Half a dozen more young folks drifted in, includin' a couple of Harvard men that Vee knew, a girl she'd met abroad, and another she'd seen at a house-party. They was all live wires, too, ready for any sort of fun. And we had all kinds. Maybe we didn't keep that toboggan slide warm. Say, it's some sport, ain't it?

      Anyway, our honeymoon was turnin' out a great success. The Nixons concluded to stay over a few days, and three or four of the others found they could too, so we just went on whooping things up.

      Next I knew we'd been there a week, and was due to make a jump to Washington for a few days of sight-seein'.

      "I'm afraid that will not be half as nice as this has been," says Vee.

      "It couldn't," says I. "It's the reg'lar thing to do, though."

      "I hate doing the regular thing," says Vee. "Besides, I'm dying to see our little studio apartment and get settled in it. Why not—well, just go home? "

      "Vee," says I, "you got more good sense than I have red hair. Let's!"

CHAPTER II

       Table of Contents

VEE WITH VARIATIONS

       Table of Contents

      "But—but look here, Vee," says I, after I'd got my breath back, "you can't do a thing like that, you know."

      "But I have, Torchy," says she; "and, what is more, I mean to keep on doing it."

      She don't say it messy, understand—just states it quiet and pleasant.

      And there we are, hardly at the end of our first month, with the rocks loomin' ahead.

      Say, where did I collect all this bunk about gettin' married, anyway? I had an idea that after the honeymoon was over, you just settled down and lived happy, or otherwise, ever after. But, believe me, there's nothing to it. It ain't all over, not by a long shot. As a matter of fact, you've just begun to live, and you got to learn how.

      Here I am, discoverin' a new Vee every day or so, and almost dizzy tryin' to get acquainted with all of 'em. Do I show up that way to her? I doubt it. Now and then, though, I catch her watchin' me sort of puzzled.

      So there's nothing steady goin' or settled about us yet, thanks be. Home ain't a place to yawn in. Not ours. We don't get all our excitement out of changin' the furniture round, either. Oh, sure, we do that, too. You know, we're startin' in with a ready-made home—a studio apartment that Mr. Robert picked up for me at a bargain, all furnished.

      He was a near-artist, if you remember, this Waddy Crane party, who'd had a bale of coupon-bearin' certificates willed to him, and what was a van-load of furniture more or less to him? Course, I'm no judge of such junk, but Vee seems to think we've got something swell.

      "Just look at this noble old davenport, will you!" says she. "Isn't it a beauty? And that highboy! Real old San Domingo mahogany that is, with perfectly lovely crotch veneer in the panels. See?"

      "Uh-huh," says I.

      "And this four-poster with the pineapple tops and the canopy," she goes on. "Pure Colonial, a hundred years old."

      "Eh?" says I, gazin' at it doubtful. "Course, I was lookin' for second-hand stuff, but I don't think he ought to work off anything that ancient on me, do you?"

      "Silly!" says Vee. "It's a gem, and the older the better."

      "We'll need some new rugs, won't we," says I, "in place of some of these faded things?"

      "Faded!" says Vee. "Why, those are Bokharas. I will say for Mr. Crane that he has good taste. This is furnished so much better than most studios—nothing useless, no mixing of periods."

      "Oh, when I go out after a home," says I, "I'm some grand little shopper."

      "Pooh!" says Vee. "Who couldn't do it the way you did? Why, the place looks as if he'd just taken his hat and walked out. There are even cigars in the humidor. And his easel and paints and brushes! Do you know what I'm going to do, Torchy?"

      "Put pink and green stripes around the cigars, I expect," says I.

      "Smarty!" says she. "I'm going to paint pictures."

      "Why not?" says I. "There's no law against it, and here you got all the tools."

      "You know I used to try it a little," says she. "I took quite a lot of lessons."

      "Then go to it," says I. "I'll get a yearly rate from a pressing club to keep the spots off me. I'll bet you could do swell pictures."

      "I know!" says Vee, clappin' her hands. "I'll begin with a portrait of you. Let me try sketching in your head now."

      That's the way Vee generally goes at things—with a rush. Say, she had me sittin' with my chin up and my arms draped in one position until I had a neck-ache that ran clear to my heels.

      "Hal-lup!" says I, when both feet was sound asleep and my spine felt ossified. "Couldn't I put on a sub while I drew a long breath?"

      At that she lets me off, and after a fifth-innin' stretch I'm called round to pass on the result.

      "Hm-m-m!" says I, starin' at what she's done to a perfectly good piece of stretched canvas.

      "Well, what does it look like?" demands Vee.

      "Why," says I, "I should call it sort of a cross between the Kaiser and Billy Sunday."

      "Torchy!" says Vee. "I—I think you're just horrid!"

      For a whole week she sticks to it industrious, jottin' down studies of various parts of my map while I'm eatin' breakfast, and workin' over 'em until I come back from the office in the afternoon. Did I throw out any more comic cracks? Never a one—not even when the picture showed that my eyes toed in. All I did was pat her on the back and say she was a wonder. But say, I got so I dreaded to look at the thing.

      "You