it was his habit (observable even now as he turned to avoid Miss Atwater) to haul at himself, to sag and hitch about inside his clothes, and to corkscrew his neck against the swathing of his collar.  And yet there were times, as the most affectionate of his aunts had remarked, when, for a moment or so, he appeared to be almost knowing; and, seeing him walking before her, she had almost taken him for a young man; and sometimes he said something in a settled kind of way that was almost adult.  This fondest aunt went on to add, however, that of course, the next minute after one of these fleeting spells, he was sure to be overtaken by his more accustomed moods, when his eye would again fix itself with fundamental aimlessness upon nothing.  In brief, he was at the age when he spent most of his time changing his mind about things, or, rather, when his mind spent most of its time changing him about things; and this was what happened now.

After turning his back on the hateful sight well known to him as his cousin Florence at her freshest, he turned again, came forth from his place of residence, and joining her upon the pavement, walked beside her, accompanying her without greeting or inquiry.  His expression of fatigue, indicating her insufferableness, had not abated; neither had her air of being a duchess looking at bugs.

“You are a pretty one!” he said; but his intention was perceived to be far indeed from his words.

“Oh, am I, Mister Herbert Atwater?” Florence responded.  “I’m awf’ly glad you think so!”

“I mean about what Henry Rooter said,” her cousin explained.  “Henry Rooter told me he made you believe you were goin’ to have a grapevine climbin’ up from inside of you because you ate some grapes with the seeds in ’em.  He says you thought you’d haf to get a carpenter to build a little arbour so you could swallow it for the grapevine to grow on.  He says——­”

Florence had become an angry pink.  “That little Henry Rooter is the worst falsehooder in this town; and I never believed a word he said in his life!  Anyway, what affairs is it of yours, I’d like you to please be so kind and obliging for to tell me, Mister Herbert Illingsworth Atwater, Exquire!”

“What affairs?” Herbert echoed in plaintive satire.  “What affairs is it of mine?  That’s just the trouble!  It’s got to be my affairs because you’re my first-cousin.  My goodness I didn’t have anything to do with you being my cousin, did I?”

“Well, I didn’t!”

“That’s neither here nor there,” said Herbert.  “What I want to know is, how long you goin’ to keep this up?”

“Keep what up?”

“I mean, how do you think I like havin’ somebody like Henry Rooter comin’ round me tellin’ what they made a cousin of mine believe, and more than thirteen years old, goin’ on fourteen ever since about a month ago!”

Florence shouted:  “Oh, for goodness’ sakes!” then moderated the volume but not the intensity of her tone.  “Kindly reply to this.  Whoever asked you to come and take a walk with me to-day?”