“If he returns I can talk to him over the banisters!...  He’s a nice boy....  Such a funny boy not to remember me....  And I’ve thought of him quite often....  I wonder if I’ve time for just one, delicious plunge?” She listened; ran to the front windows and looked out through the blinds.  He was nowhere in sight.

Ten minutes later, delightfully refreshed, she stood regarding herself in her lovely rose-tinted morning gown, patting her bright hair into discipline with slim, deft fingers, a half-smile on her lips, lids closing a trifle over the pensive violet eyes.

“Now,” she said aloud, “I’ll talk to him over the banisters when he returns; it’s a little ungracious, I suppose, after all he has done, but it’s more conventional....  And I’ll sit here and read until they send somebody from Sandcrest with a gown I can travel in....  And then we’ll catch Clarence and call a cab——­”

A distant tinkling from the area bell interrupted her.

“Oh, dear,” she exclaimed, “I quite forgot that I had to let him in!”

Another tinkle.  She cast a hurried and doubtful glance over her attire.  It was designed for the intimacy of her boudoir.

“I—­I couldn’t talk to him out of the window!  I’ve been shocking enough as it is!” she thought; and, finger tips on the banisters, she ran down the three stairs and appeared at the basement grille, breathless, radiant, forgetting, as usual, her self-consciousness in thinking of him, a habit of this somewhat harebrained and headlong girl which had its root in perfect health of body and wholesomeness of mind.

“I found some clothes—­not the sort I can go out in!” she said, laughing at his astonishment, as she unlocked the grille.  “So, please, overlook my attire; I was so full of coal dust! and I found sufficient Apollinaris for my necessities.... What did they say at Sandcrest?”

He said very soberly:  “We’ve got to discuss this situation.  Perhaps I had better come in for a few minutes—­if you don’t mind.”

“No, I don’t mind....  Shall we sit in the drying room?” leading the way.  “Now tell me what is the matter?  You rather frighten me, you know.  Is—­is anything wrong at Sandcrest?”

“No, I suppose not.”  He touched his flushed face with his handkerchief; “I couldn’t get Oyster Bay on the ’phone.”

“W-why not?”

“The wires are out of commission as far as Huntington; there’s no use—­I tried everything!  Telegraph and telephone wires were knocked out in this morning’s electric storm, it seems.”

She gazed at him, hands folded on her knee, left leg crossed over, foot swinging.

“This,” she said calmly, “is becoming serious.  Will you tell me what I am to do?”

“Haven’t you anything to travel in?”

“Not one solitary rag.”

“Then—­you’ll have to stay here to-night and send for some of your friends—­you surely know somebody who is still in town, don’t you?”