Mrs. Phillips had come across from the dry-
goods store to pick up her monthly sheaf of vouchers,--it was the third of
October.
"Don't you want to come in for a minute?" she asked Randolph. "Then you can
walk on with me to the stationer's. Carolyn tells me that our last batch of
invitations reduced us to nothing. How did _your_ dinner go?"
Randolph followed her into the cool marble interior. "Oh, in town, you
mean? Quite well, I think. I'm sure my young man took a good honest
appetite with him!"
"I know. We don't do half enough for these poor boys."
"Yes, he rose to the food. But not to the drinks. I took him, after all, to
my club. I innocently suggested cocktails; but, no. He declined--in a deft
but straightforward way. Country principles. Small-town morals. He made me
feel like a--well, like a corrupter of youth."
"You didn't mind, though,--of course you didn't. You liked it. Wasn't it
noble! Wasn't it charming! So glad that _we_ had nothing but
Apollinaris and birch beer! Still, it would have been a pleasure to hear
him refuse."
The receiving-teller gave her her vouchers. She put them in her handbag and
somehow got round a perambulator, and the two went out on the street.
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