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And it had evidently been taken recently, for it showed the later Geoffrey, the man of substance. It was a full-length photograph and across the stout legs was written in a flowing hand the legend, "To Babe from her little Pootles". Maud gave a shudder and handed it back to the young man, just as Geoffrey, reaching across the table, made a grab for it. "I recognize it," she said. Mr.
"Don't fight, you two children!" intervened Lucille, firmly. "It's a good old Middle West name. Everybody knows the Huskissons of Snake Bite, Michigan. Besides, Bill calls her Tootles." "Pootles," corrected Bill, austerely. "Oh, yes, Pootles. He calls her Pootles." "Young blood! Young blood!" sighed Archie. "I wish you wouldn't talk as if you were my grandfather."
"Do you know the leader of the orchestra in the restaurant downstairs?" asked Archie, ignoring the slur. "I know there IS a leader of the orchestra. What about him?" "A sound fellow. Great pal of mine. I've forgotten his name " "Call him Pootles!" suggested Lucille. "Desist!" said Archie, as a wordless growl proceeded from his stricken brother-in-law.
The words seemed to rouse her companion from his stupor. "Let me explain!" "There's nothing to explain." "It was just a . . . it was just a passing . . . It was nothing . . . nothing." "Pootles!" murmured Maud. Geoffrey followed her as she moved to the door. "Be reasonable!" pleaded Geoffrey. "Men aren't saints!
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