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"The Affair at Flower Acres," "Anybody But Anne,"
"The Mystery of the Sycamore," "Raspberry Jam,"
"The Vanishing of Betty Varian," "Spooky Hollow,"
"Feathers Left Around," etc.
Victoria Van Allen was the name she signed to her letters and to hercheques, but Vicky Van, as her friends called her, was signed all overher captivating personality, from the top of her dainty, tossing headto the tips of her dainty, dancing feet.
I liked her from the first, and if her "small and earlies" were saidto be so called because they were timed by the small and earlynumerals on the clock dial, and if her "little" bridge games kept inactive circulation a goodly share of our country's legal tender, thosethings are not crimes.
I lived in one of the polite sections of New York City, up among theEast Sixties, and at the insistence of my sister and aunt, who livedwith me, our home was near enough the great boulevard to be designatedby that enviable phrase, "Just off Fifth Avenue." We were on the northside of the street, and, nearer to the Avenue, on the south side, wasthe home of Vicky Van.
Before I knew the girl, I saw her a few times, at long intervals, onthe steps of her house, or entering her little car, andhalf-consciously I noted her charm and her evident zest of life.
Later, when a club friend offered to take me there to call, I acceptedgladly, and as I have said, I liked her from the first.
And yet, I never said much about her to my sister. I am, in a way,responsible for Winnie, and too, she's too young to go where they playBridge for money. Little faddly prize bags or gift-shop novelties areher stakes.
Also, Aunt Lucy, who helps me look after Win, wouldn't quiteunderstand the atmosphere at Vicky's. Not exactly Bohemian—and yet,I suppose it did represent one compartment of that handy-box of aterm. But I'm going to tell you, right now, about a party I went tothere, and you can see for yourself what Vicky Van was like.
"How late you're going out," said Winnie, as I slithered into mytopcoat. "It's after eleven."
"Little girls mustn't make comments on big brothers," I smiled back ather. Win was nineteen and I had attained the mature age oftwenty-seven. We were orphans and spinster Aunt Lucy did her best tobe a parent to us; and we got on smoothly enough, for none of us hadthe temperament that rouses friction in the home.
"Across the street?" Aunt Lucy guessed, raising her aristocraticeyebrows a hair's breadth.
"Yes," I returned, the least bit irritated at