_ That evening, at about half-past seven
o'clock, dinner being over and Mr. and Mrs.
Baxter (parents of William) seated in the library,
Mrs. Baxter said:
``I think it's about time for you to go and dress
for your Emerson Club meeting, papa, if you
intend to go.''
``Do I have to dress?'' Mr. Baxter asked,
plaintively.
``I think nearly all the men do, don't they?''
she insisted.
``But I'm getting old enough not to have to,
don't you think, mamma?'' he urged, appealingly.
``When a man's my age--''
``Nonsense!'' she said. ``Your figure is exactly
like William's. It's the figure that really shows
age first, and yours hasn't begun to.'' And she
added, briskly, ``Go along like a good boy and
get it ever!''
Mr. Baxter rose submissively and went up-
stairs to do as he was bid. But, after fifteen or
twenty minutes, during which his footsteps had
been audible in various parts of the house, he
called down over the banisters:
``I can't find 'em.''
``Can't find what?''
``My evening clothes. They aren't anywhere
in the house.''
``Where did you put them the last time you
wore them?'' she called.
``I don't know. I haven't had 'em on since
last spring.''
``All right; I'll come,'' she said, putting her
sewing upon the table and rising. ``Men never
can find anything,'' she observed, additionally, as
she ascended the stairs. ``Especially their own
things!''
On this occasion, however, as she was obliged
to admit a little later, women were not more
efficacious than the duller sex. Search high,
search low, no trace of Mr. Baxter's evening
clothes were to be found. ``Perhaps William
could find them,'' said Mrs. Baxter, a final
confession of helplessness.
But William was no more to be found than
the missing apparel. William, in fact, after
spending some time in the lower back hall, listening
to the quest above, had just gone out through
the kitchen door. And after some ensuing futile
efforts, Mr. Baxter was forced to proceed to his
club in the accoutrements of business.
He walked slowly, enjoying the full moon,
which sailed up a river in the sky--the open space
between the trees that lined the street--and as he
passed the house of Mr. Parcher he noted the fine
white shape of a masculine evening bosom gleaming
in the moonlight on the porch. A dainty figure
in white sat beside it, and there was another
white figure present, though this one was
so small that Mr. Baxter did not see it at all. It
was the figure of a tiny doglet, and it reposed
upon the black masculine knees that belonged to
the evening bosom.
Mr. Baxter heard a dulcet voice.
``He IS indifferink, isn't he, sweetest Flopit?
Seriously, though, Mr. Watson was telling me
about you to-day. He says you're the most
indifferent man he knows. He says you don't
care two minutes whether a girl lives or dies.
Isn't he a mean ole wicked sing, p'eshus Flopit!''
The reply was inaudible, and Mr. Baxter
passed on, having recognized nothing of his
own.
``These YOUNG fellows don't have any trouble
finding their dress-suits, I guess,'' he murmured.
``Not on a night like this!''
. . . Thus William, after a hard day, came
to the gates of his romance, entering those portals
of the moon in triumph. At one stroke his dashing
raiment gave him high superiority over Johnnie
Watson and other rivals who might loom.
But if he had known to what undoing this great
coup exposed him, it is probable that Mr. Baxter
would have appeared at the Emerson Club, that
night, in evening clothes. _