Happy Birthday, then. And all the old—the old trick of shrinking up like a snail at a touch. “To tell you the truth, I am a little dull. “Fred,” he said, “do you remember taking me to dinner at the ‘Ambassador’s,’ one evening last September, to meet a girl who was singing there? Hamilton and Drummond and his lot were with us. Why did he take me?’ Martha’s damp eyes were puzzled. “Forgive me,” he decided to say at last, and his voice had a little quiver of emotion, and he laid his hand on hers upon her knee. I was grateful.
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