At the hospital, she had received a favorable report of the patient’s progress.  His physicians were distinctly encouraged.  Nan looked in on her lover for a minute, and then hurried away on the plea that her baby was locked in at the Sawdust Pile, in the absence of some one to care for him; she had the usual maternal presentiment that he was playing with matches.

As she was going out she met The Laird and Mrs. McKaye coming in.  Old Hector lifted his hat and said quite heartily: 

“How do you do, my dear girl.  The news this evening is most encouraging—­thanks to you, I’m told—­so we are permitted to see Donald for five minutes.  Nellie, my dear, you remember little Nan Brent, do you not?”

Mrs. McKaye’s handsome mouth contracted in a small, automatic smile that did not extend to her eyes.  She acknowledged Nan’s “Good-evening, Mrs. McKaye,” with a brief nod, and again favored the girl with another property smile, between the coming and going of which her teeth flashed with the swiftness of the opening and closing of a camera shutter.

“We are so grateful to you, Miss Brent,” she murmured.  And then, womanlike, her alert brown eyes, starting their appraisal at Nan’s shoes, roved swiftly and calmly upward, noting every item of her dress, every soft seductive curve of her healthy young body.  Her glance came to a rest on the girl’s face, and for the space of several seconds they looked at each other frankly while old Hector was saying: 

“Aye, grateful indeed, Nan.  We shall never be out of your debt.  There are times when a kindness and a sacrifice are all the more welcome because unexpected, and we had no right to expect this of you.  God bless you, my dear, and remember—­I am always your friend.”

“Yes, indeed,” his wife murmured, in a voice that, lacking his enthusiasm, conveyed to Nan the information that The Laird spoke for himself.  She tugged gently at her husband’s arm; again the automatic smile; with a cool:  “Good-night, Miss Brent.  Thank you again—­so much,” she propelled The Laird toward the hospital entrance.  He obeyed promptly, glad to escape a situation that was painful to him, for he had realized that which his wife did not credit him with having sufficiently acute perception to realize—­to-wit, that his wife’s camouflage was somewhat frayed and poorly manufactured. She had not played the game with him.  It would have cost her nothing to have been as kindly and sincere as he had been toward this unfortunate girl; nevertheless, while he had sensed her deficiency, his wife had carried the affair off so well that he could not advance a sound argument to convince her of it.  So he merely remarked dryly as the hospital door closed behind them: 

“Nellie, I’m going to propound a conundrum for you.  Why did your greeting of the Brent girl remind me of that Louis Quinze tapestry for which you paid sixty thousand francs the last time you were abroad?”