“But here I am bothering you with all of my troubles,” she said, “when all the time gallant cavaliers wait without, anxious to pay their devoirs.”

Her voice was as gay, as unconcerned, as if she had not just been sounding the depths of terrible memories.  I paid a silent tribute to her powers of self-discipline before answering curiously.

“Gallant cavaliers?” I repeated.  “Who are they?”

“Well, Harry is at the door, and Mr. Gordon at the gate,” she returned merrily.  “In other words, Harry is downstairs, waiting patiently for me to give him permission to see you, while Mr. Gordon took up quarters at a country inn near here the day after your accident and has called or telephoned almost hourly since.  He begged me this morning to let him know when you would be able to see him.  If Harry’s call does not tire you, I think I would better ’phone him to come over.”

“Lillian!” I spoke imperatively, as a sudden recollection flashed through my mind.  “Was I delirious, or did I hear Mr. Gordon exclaim something very foolish the night of my accident?”

She looked at me searchingly.

“He said, ‘My darling, have I found you only to lose you again?’” she answered.

“What did he mean?” I gasped.

“That he must tell you himself, Madge,” she said gravely.  “For me to guess his meaning would be futile.  Shall I telephone him to come over, and will you see Harry for a moment or two now?”

“Yes! to both questions,” I answered.

“Well, lady fair, they haven’t made you take the count yet, have they?  By Jove, you’re prettier than ever.”

Ushered by Lillian, Harry Underwood came into my room with all his usual breeziness, and stood looking down at me as I lay propped against the pillows Lillian had piled around me.  It was the first time I had seen him since the night of our dinner, when with the wild idea of punishing Dicky for his foolishness regarding elderly Mr. Gordon I had carried on a rather intense flirtation with Harry Underwood.

I had been heartily sorry for and ashamed of the experiment before the dinner was half over, and many times since the accident which interrupted the evening I had wondered, half-whimsically, whether my dress catching fire was not a “judgment on me.”  I had deeply dreaded seeing Mr. Underwood again, but as I looked into his eyes I saw nothing but friendly cheeriness and pity.

Lillian drew a chair for him to my bedside, and for a few moments he chatted of everything and nothing in the entertaining manner he knows so well how to use.

“You may have just three minutes more, Harry,” Lillian said at last.  “Stay here while I go down to telephone.  Then you will have to vamoose.  Mr. Gordon is coming over, and I can’t have her too tired.”

Her husband gave a low whistle, and I saw a quick look of understanding pass between him and Lillian.  I did not have time to wonder about it, however, for Lillian went out of the room, and the moment she closed the door he said tensely: