“Here—­this way—­last door—­Aunt Victoria’s room!” called Sylvia, and felt like a terror-stricken actor making a first public appearance, enormously surprised, relieved, and heartened to find her usual voice still with her.  As Molly came flying into the room, she ran to meet her.  They fell into each other’s arms with incoherent ejaculations and, under the extremely appreciative eye of Mrs. Marshall-Smith, kissed each other repeatedly.

“Oh, isn’t she the dear!” cried Molly, shaking out amply to the breeze a victor’s easy generosity.  “Isn’t she the darlingest girl in the world!  She understands so!  When I saw how perfectly sweet she was the day Arnold and Judith announced their engagement, I said to myself I wanted her to be the first person I spoke to about mine.”

The approach of the inexorable necessity for her first words roused Sylvia to an inspiration which struck out an almost visible spark of admiration from her aunt.  “You just count too much on my being ‘queer,’ Molly,” she said playfully, pulling the other girl down beside her, with an affectionate gesture.  “How do you know that I’m not fearfully jealous of you? Such a charmer as your fiance is!”

Molly laughed delightedly.  “Isn’t she wonderful—­not to care a bit—­really!” she appealed to Sylvia’s aunt.  “How anybody could resist Felix—­but then she’s so clever.  She’s wonderful!”

Sylvia, smiling, cordial, clear-eyed and bitter-hearted, thought that she really was.

“But I can’t talk about it here!” cried Molly restlessly.  “I came to carry Sylvia off.  I can’t sit still at home.  I want to go ninety miles an hour!  I can’t think straight unless I’m behind the steering-wheel.  Come along, Sylvia!”

Mrs. Marshall-Smith thereupon showed herself, for all her amenity and grace, more of a match of Molly’s force and energy than either Sylvia or Morrison had been on a certain rather memorable occasion ten days before.  She opposed the simple irresistible obstacle of a flat command.  “Sylvia’s not going out in a car dressed in a lace-trimmed negligee, with a boudoir cap on, whether you get what you want the minute you want it or not, Molly Sommerville,” she said with the authoritative accent which had always quelled Arnold in his boyhood (as long as he was within earshot).  The method was effective now.  Molly laughed.  Sylvia even made shift to laugh; and Helene was summoned to put on the trim shirt-waist, the short cloth skirt and close hat which Mrs. Marshall-Smith selected with care and the history of which she detailed at length, so copiously that there was no opportunity to speak of anything less innocuous.  Her unusual interest in the matter even caused her to accompany the girls to the head of the stairs, still talking, and she called down to them finally as they went out of the front door, “... it’s the only way with Briggs—­he’s simply incorrigible about delays—­and yet nobody does skirts as he does!  You just have to tell him you will not take it, if he doesn’t get it done on time!”