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plenty of room, too, for Alison’s chair on the little balcony, and there she established herself directly after luncheon. She had been out all the morning, shopping, and in the intervals of choosing ties for her husband and an evening gown for herself she had reasoned herself into a different point of view with regard to yesterday’s disturbing little incident. She must remember that Tony was really not like other boys. She had not known him for long, after all, and he probably was subject to all sorts of moods and fancies, any of which might explain his behaviour simply enough. Why, then, insist on assigning a sentimental reason?—it was quite absurd of her. Poor, dear boy!—he was only fifteen, and, of course, he was fond of her. It was only that he had taken such a long time about showing it, and didn’t show it now in quite the way she had expected. But there were boys and boys, and anyway she was going to sit with him till it was time to go to the Wallaces’ tea, and be just the same as usual.

Accordingly it was the same frank, friendly Alison who appeared as soon as luncheon was over and cried joyfully, “Oh, Tony, isn’t it grand to see you out of doors again? What have you done all the morning?”

Not much but watch what went on in the street, Tony told her.

“I’ve got an hour I can spend with you now, Little Boy, so we can watch together. You can stay out as long as the sun’s up, or till you are tired. What about books? Did you finish Richard III?”

They talked about books for a time—a safe topic—but surely it was ridiculous to worry about safe topics, for Tony was perfectly normal. Only a little brighter and happier-looking than usual; that was the fresh air and being out of doors.

“Isn’t this a dear little balcony, Tony? So nice and high up, one is away from the dust and too much noise. I wish