The bell of his private telephone rang—­only his intimates had the number of that wire—­and he raised the receiver with sudden conviction that the voice he would hear was Dorothy’s.  “Well, my dear?” he said.  There was a little gurgle, and an obviously disguised voice replied: 

“And who do you think this is?”

“Why, the queen of the debutantes, of course.  I felt it in my bones; it was a pleasurable sensation.”

“Wrong,” the voice came back, “quite wrong.  This is the superintendent of the Old Ladies’ Home, and we want autographed photographs of you for all the old ladies’ dressers—­to cheer them up, you know.”

“Certainly, my dear madam; they shall be sent at once.  To your apartment, I suppose.  Is there anything else?”

“Yes; you might bring them yourself.  Did you know that mother has been ordered off to Bermuda at once?  The doctor says she’s dreadfully run down.  She won’t let me go with her.  She wants me to do a lot of things; and then in three weeks we all go South.  Mother’s doctor says she mustn’t wait.  Isn’t it a bore?  And Tante Lydia is coming to-day to chaperon me.  Did you get my invitation?”

Gard’s heart sank.  “Dear me!  That’s bad news.  How long will your mother be gone?”

“Oh, just the voyage and straight home again.  But do come in this afternoon and have tea; perhaps you could persuade her to stay a week there—­she won’t obey me.”

“They are very insubordinate in the Old Ladies’ Home.  I’ll drop in this afternoon.  Good-by, my dear.”

He hung up the receiver and glowered.  “Not well!  Mrs. Marteen in the doctor’s care!” He could not associate her perfection with illness of any kind.  It gave him a distinct pang, and for the first time a feeling of protective tenderness.  This instantly translated itself into a lavish order of violets, and a mental note to see that, her stateroom was made beautiful for her voyage.

Adding his signature to the pile of letters that Saunders handed him served to pass the moments till he could officially declare himself free for the day and be driven to the abode of the two beings who had so absorbed his interest.

He found Mrs. Marteen reclining on a chaise-longue in her library-sitting room, the Pekinese spaniel in her lap and Dorothy by her side.  She looked weary, but not ill, and Gard felt a glow of comfort.

“Dear lady, I came at once.  Dorothy advised me of your impending journey, and led me to believe you were not well.  But I am reassured—­you do not seem a drooping flower.”

Mrs. Marteen laughed.  “How 1830!  Couldn’t you put it into a madrigal?  It really is absurd, though, sending me off like this.  But they threatened me with nerves—­fancy that—­nerves!  And never having had an attack of that sort, of course I’m terrified.  I shall leave my butterfly in good hands, however.  My sister is to take my place; and I sha’n’t be gone long, you know.”