“No.  Good heavens!”

“And the only thing I could think of was that something must have happened to them, and I just dashed over—­and it was only your piano!” She broke into laughter again.  “I suppose you’re just sending it somewhere to be repaired, aren’t you?”

“It’s—­it’s being taken down-town,” said Mrs. Vertrees.  “Won’t you come in and make me a little visit.  I was so sorry, the other day, that I was—­ah—­” She stopped inconsequently, then repeated her invitation.  “Won’t you come in?  I’d really—­”

“Thank you, but I must be running back.  My husband usually gets home about this time, and I make a little point of it always to be there.”

“That’s very sweet.”  Mrs. Vertrees descended the steps and walked toward the street with Sibyl.  “It’s quite balmy for so late in November, isn’t it?  Almost like a May evening.”

“I’m afraid Miss Vertrees will miss her piano,” said Sibyl, watching the instrument disappear into the big van at the curb.  “She plays wonderfully, Mrs. Kittersby tells me.”

“Yes, she plays very well.  One of your relatives came to hear her yesterday, after dinner, and I think she played all evening for him.”

“You mean Bibbs?” asked Sibyl.

“The—­the youngest Mr. Sheridan.  Yes.  He’s very musical, isn’t he?”

“I never heard of it.  But I shouldn’t think it would matter much whether he was or not, if he could get Miss Vertrees to play to him.  Does your daughter expect the piano back soon?”

“I—­I believe not immediately.  Mr. Sheridan came last evening to hear her play because she had arranged with the—­that is, it was to be removed this afternoon.  He seems almost well again.”

“Yes.”  Sibyl nodded.  “His father’s going to try to start him to work.”

“He seems very delicate,” said Mrs. Vertrees.  “I shouldn’t think he would be able to stand a great deal, either physically or—­” She paused and then added, glowing with the sense of her own adroitness —­“or mentally.”

“Oh, mentally Bibbs is all right,” said Sibyl, in an odd voice.

“Entirely?” Mrs. Vertrees asked, breathlessly.

“Yes, entirely.”

“But has he always been?” This question came with the same anxious eagerness.

“Certainly.  He had a long siege of nervous dyspepsia, but he’s over it.”

“And you think—­”

“Bibbs is all right.  You needn’t wor—­” Sibyl choked, and pressed her handkerchief to her mouth.  “Good night, Mrs. Vertrees,” she said, hurriedly, as the head-lights of an automobile swung round the corner above, sending a brightening glare toward the edge of the pavement where the two ladies were standing.

“Won’t you come in?” urged Mrs. Vertrees, cordially, hearing the sound of a cheerful voice out of the darkness beyond the approaching glare.  “Do!  There’s Mary now, and she—­”

But Sibyl was half-way across the street.  “No, thanks,” she called.  “I hope she won’t miss her piano!” And she ran into her own house and plunged headlong upon a leather divan in the hall, holding her handkerchief over her mouth.