sit under this tree and watch the boats. Won’t you join me?”
“I used to live here when I was a child,” Grandma informed her new friend. “I was born in that corner room up there.”
“Really? That’s my room now. But if you come back you shall have it. I wouldn’t think of keeping it from you.”
“Oh, no! You mustn’t!” protested Grandma. “Besides, I’m not coming here. They’re sending me out to Coverdale. Have you been here long?”
“Eighteen years. You see, I’m Mrs. Liscomb, Mr. Gobbet’s mother-in-law. You say you were born here? Well, both my granddaughters were born here, too.” She nodded toward the tennis court.
Grandma was puzzled. “How many old ladies are here now?” she asked.
“I’m the only one. Mr. Gobbet’s mother lived here until she died about ten years ago.” Mrs. Liscomb reached over and patted Grandma’s hand. “I’m sure Wallace will let you stay here if I ask him to. It would be lovely to have you to walk and read with, and maybe”—a touch of color came into her faded cheeks—“maybe sometimes we could steal away and go to the movies! Wouldn’t that be fun?”
While Mr. John De Puyster Hepplewhite, as the scion of one of the city’s oldest and richest families, served by social inheritance as director or trustee of a large number of its philanthropic and artistic institutions, he, unfortunately, knew less than might have been reasonably expected about their affairs. He was just showing to his friend, Mrs. Rufus Witherspoon, a Renoir recently acquired for his private gallery, when his butler appeared and, with a deprecating cough, summoned him to the telephone.
“Some person named Tutt, sir. Most persistent. ‘Threatening,’ if I may use the word, sir.”
“Bless me!” exclaimed Mr. Hepplewhite. “What can he want? ... Hel-lo? Hel-lo! ... Yes, this is Mr. Hepplewhite speaking.”
“Are you chairman of the board of the Home for Aged Gentlewomen, Incorporated?” came the voice of the lawyer.
“Why, yes. I have been such for twelve years.”
“Then I advise you to telephone its attorney and join me at your Wadsworth Place office immediately.”
“But—but really! Isn’t this rather precipitous?” objected Mr. Hepplewhite. “I’ve a lady guest here with whom I have a luncheon engagement.”
“Sir,” said Mr. Tutt sternly, “if you keep that luncheon engagement it may cost you a million dollars!”
When Mr. Tutt escorted Grandma Benton back to her father’s library, she found the party augmented by two well-dressed gentlemen who had evidently just arrived.
“This is the lady whom I represent,” he announced. “Mrs. Benton, allow me to introduce Mr. Hepplewhite and Mr. Edgerton. Mr. Gobbet, here, you know.”
Mr. Hepplewhite pushed up an upholstered armchair for Grandma to sit in. She saw that they both were quite different from Mr. Gobbet, who had retired sullenly behind his desk.
“Mrs. Benton is the only daughter of General Eben Wadsworth,” Mr. Tutt informed them. “As such, she has a deep interest in the home.”
The faces of both the visitors brightened.
“I am delighted to hear it, Mrs. Benton!” exclaimed Mr. Hepplewhite. “It is a pleasure to meet the daughter of one of the institution’s benefactors.”
“As attorney for her father’s estate I have a similar interest,” continued Mr. Tutt. “Since we have a complaint to make as to its management, we wanted you to hear what we had to say firsthand.”
“Complaint!” exclaimed Mr. Hepplewhite nervously. “I hope it is not serious!”
“I am sorry to say that it is. When Mrs. Benton sought to be admitted to the home, your superintendent insisted upon an assignment of all her property, including her interest in her father’s estate.”
“You mean that Mrs. Benton is an applicant for admission to the institution?” asked Mr. Hepplewhite in a horrified tone.
“She has suffered financial reverses.”
“I am greatly distressed to hear it! Of course, room shall be made for her at once.”
“I have already arranged for that,” growled Gobbet. “I’ve done everything possible for Mrs. Benton, even to waiving the payment of the required fee.”
“It is true that you have agreed to take her into Coverdale, but you have refused to admit her here—to her own father’s house.”
“I was born here,” pleaded Grandma. “I would like to come back to it.”
“Why can’t you take Mrs. Benton in here, Gobbet?” inquired Edgerton.
“Simply because we’re full up,” sourly replied the superintendent. “I’m naturally very sorry for her. It’s just a question of room. As for the assignment of property, Mr. Edgerton, you know we insist upon it in every case, as a matter of good faith.”
“Good faith!” ejaculated Mr. Tutt. “Do you seek to take the widow’s mite away from her in every case?”
Gobbet jumped up, red about the collar. “What is this?” he rasped. “A criminal trial? Have I got to sit here quietly and be insulted without a word of defense?”
“Certainly not!” answered Mr. Tutt. “Your defense is just what we want to hear. You call this a home for aged women. How many inmates have you accommodated in the last eighteen years?”
Gobbet’s color deepened and spread upward. “Why—er—a good many—several. The number, of course, varies.”
“How many at present?” persisted the old lawyer.
“I—I can’t say exactly,” stammered the superintendent. “Come to think of it, I guess at the moment there’s only one.”
“What is her name?”
The superintendent hesitated.
“Well, what is it?” reiterated Mr. Tutt.
“Mrs. Liscomb.”
“Any relative of yours?” coaxed the old lawyer.
“She—she happens to be my mother-in-law,” admitted Gobbet thickly.
“She’s not enrolled as an inmate, is she?”
“I suppose not, but—she’s an old lady.”
Mr. Tutt smiled genially at Mr. Hepplewhite. “Well—if she’ll pardon my saying so—so is Mrs. Benton! Now, Mr. Gobbet, I notice that the dining table across the hall is set for eight. For whom are the places laid?”
“For the—er—inmates, my family and a few of the higher employees.”
“I see. How many in your family?”
“Five.”
