Mrs. Marshall kissed her good-bye gently, not smiling at Sylvia’s attempt to lighten the moment’s seriousness by saying playfully, “Now, Mother, don’t you be such an old worrier!” But she said nothing “uncomfortable,” for which Sylvia was very grateful.

She had no sooner embarked upon the big Interurban trolley-car which was to take her to Mercerton than her attention was wholly diverted from uneasy reflections by the unexpected appearance of two of the house-party guests.  Eleanor Hubert, every detail of her Complicated costume exquisitely finished as a Meissonier painting, sat looking out of the window rather soberly, and so intently that she saw neither Sylvia’s entrance, nor, close upon her heels, that of a florid-faced, rather heavily built young man with a large, closely shaven jaw, who exclaimed joyfully at seeing Miss Marshall, and appropriated with ready assurance the other half of her seat.

“Now, this is surely dandy!  You’re going to the house-party too, of course!” he cried, unbuttoning and throwing back his bright tan overcoat.  “Here’s where I cut Jerry out all right, all right!  Wait a minute! How much time have we?” He appealed to the conductor as though a matter of life and death depended on the answer.  “Four minutes?—­here goes—­” He sprang to his feet, dashed out of the car and disappeared, leaving his coat beside Sylvia.  It was evidently quite new, of the finest material, with various cunningly stitched seams and straps disposed upon its surface in a very knowing way.  Sylvia noted out of the corner of her eye that the address of the maker, woven into the neckband, was on Fifth Avenue, New York.

The four minutes passed—­and the conductor approached Sylvia.  “Your friend’s coming back, ain’t he?” he asked, with the tolerant, good-natured respect natural for the vagaries of expensively dressed young men who wore overcoats made on Fifth Avenue.  Sylvia, who had met the young man but once before, when Jerry had introduced him as an old friend, was a little startled at having a casual acquaintance so publicly affixed to her; but after an instant’s hesitation, in which she was reflecting that she positively did not even remember her “friend’s” name, she answered, “Oh yes, yes, I suppose so—­here he is now.”

The young man bounded up on the back platform panting, holding his hat on with one hand, a large box of candy in the other.  Sylvia glanced at the name on the cover.  “You didn’t go all the way to Button’s!” she cried.

He nodded, breathless, evidently proud of his feat, and when he caught his breath enough to speak, explained, “Yepp,—­it’s the only place in this bum town where you can get Alligretti’s, and they’re the only kind that’re fit to eat” He tore open the box as he spoke, demolishing with ruthless and practised hands the various layers of fine paper and gold cord which wrapped it about, and presented the rich layer of black chocolates to Sylvia.  “Get a move on and take one,”