Arrived at home, Laura (as soon as she had looked up the definition of “pergola” in the dictionary) lost no time in telephoning to Mrs. Cressler.

“What,” this latter cried when she told her the news, “that Sheldon Corthell back again! Well, dear me, if he wasn’t the last person in my mind. I do remember the lovely windows he used to paint, and how refined and elegant he always was⁠—and the loveliest hands and voice.”

“He’s to dine with us tonight, and I want you and Mr. Cressler to come.”

“Oh, Laura, child, I just simply can’t. Charlie’s got a man from Milwaukee coming here tonight, and I’ve got to feed him. Isn’t it too provoking? I’ve got to sit and listen to those two, clattering commissions and percentages and all, when I might be hearing Sheldon Corthell talk art and poetry and stained glass. I declare, I never have any luck.”