“That was like Matilda,” answered the major with a smile in his eyes.  “She was putting in a claim for you then, though she didn’t realize it.  Women have always worked combinations by wireless at long time and long distance.  Better make it buttered biscuits, and Phoebe likes them with plenty of butter.”

Tempie’s adoption of Caroline Darrah had been as complete and as enthusiastic as the rest of them and she had proceeded forthwith to put her through a course of domestic instruction that delighted the hearts of them both.  She never failed to bemoan the fate that had left the child ignorant of matters of such importance and she was stern in her endeavor to correct the pernicious neglect.  She had to admit, however, that Caroline was an extraordinarily apt pupil and she laid it all to what she called “the Darrah strain of cooking blood,” though she was as proud as possible over each triumph.  Nothing pleased them both more than to have Mrs. Buchanan occasionally leave culinary arrangements to their co-administration.

An hour later a gay party was gathered around the table in the drawing-room.  The major sat near at hand enjoying it hugely, and his comments were dropped like philosophical crystals into the swell of the conversation.

Mrs. Cherry Lawrence had come in with Mrs. Matilda in all the bravery of a most striking, becoming and expensive second mourning costume, and she was keenly alive to every situation that might be made to compass even the smallest amount of gaiety.  Her lavender embroideries were the only reminders of the existence of the departed Cherry, and their lavishness was a direct defiance of his years of effort in the curtailing of the tastes of his expensive wife.

Tom Cantrell’s lean dark face of Indian cast lit up like a transparency when she arrived and he left Polly Farrell’s side so quickly that Polly almost dropped the lemon fork with which she was maneuvering, in her surprise at his sudden desertion.  In a moment he had divested the widow of a long cloth and sable coat that would have made Cherry sit up and groan if he had even had a grave-dream about it.  She bestowed a smile on Polly, a still more impressive one on the major and sank into a chair near Phoebe.

“Why, where is David Kildare?” she asked interestedly.  “I thought he would be here before me.  He promised to come.  Phoebe, you are sweet in that dark gray.  Has anybody anything interesting to tell?”

“I have,” answered Polly as she passed Phoebe a cup and a mischievous smile, for Mrs. Cherry’s appointment with David tickled Polly’s risibles to an alarming extent.  “There’s the most heavenly man down here from Boston to see Caroline Darrah Brown and she neglects him.  I’m so sorry for him that I don’t know what will happen.  I’m—­”

“Why, where is he?” interrupted Mrs. Cherry with the utmost cordiality.

They all laughed as Polly parted her charming lips and passed the questioner the lemon slices with impressive obviousness.