There was a mighty surging within Mrs. De Peyster, a premonition of eruption.  But she choked it down.  William, launched upon the placid sea of his elderly affection, did not heed that his supposed inamorata was making no replies.

“She’s a regular tyrant!” he repeated.  “But now that she’s away,” he added in a tender tone, “and left just us two here, Matilda dear, we’ll have a lot of nice little times together.”  And urged by his welling love he again embraced her and again pressed a loverly kiss upon Matilda’s veil.

This was too much.  The crater could be choked no longer.  The eruption came.

“Let me go!” Mrs. De Peyster cried, struggling; and her right hand, striking wildly out, fell full upon William’s sacred cheek.

He drew back amazed.

“What’s the matter?” he demanded.

Mrs. De Peyster searched frantically for the keyhole to the inner door.

“Matilda, I’m not the man to take that!” he declared irefully.  “What do you mean?”

“Go!  Go!” she gasped.

He drew back wrathfully, but with an awful dignity.

“Very well, Miss Simpson.  But I’m not a man that forgives.  You’ll be sorry for this!”

As he started stiffly away Mrs. De Peyster found the keyhole.  She turned her key, opened the door, and closed it quickly behind her.  Gasping, shivering, she groped in the dusky hall until she found a chair.  Into this she sank, half fainting, and sat shaking with astoundment, with horror, with wrath.

Wrath swiftly became the ruling emotion.  It began to fulminate.  She would discharge William!  She would send him flying the very next morning, bag and baggage!

Then an appalling thought shot through her.  She could not discharge William!

She could not discharge William, because she was not there to discharge him!  She was upon the Atlantic highroad, speeding for Europe, and would not be home for many a month!  And during all those months, whenever she dared appear, she would be subject to William’s loverly attention!

She sat rigid with the horror of this new development.  But she had not yet had time to realize its full possibilities—­for hardly a minute had passed since she had entered—­when she heard a key slide into the lock of the front door and saw a vague figure enter the unlighted hall.  She arose in added terror.  Had that William come back to—­

“Oh, there you are, Matilda,” softly called a voice, and the vague figure came toward her.

Mrs. De Peyster’s terror took suddenly a new turn.  For the voice was not the voice of her coachman.

“J-a-c-k!” she breathed wildly.

Jack threw an arm about Mrs. De Peyster’s shoulders.

“Ho, ho, that’s the time I caught you, Matilda,” said he, in teasing reproof.  “U’m, I saw those tender little love passages between you and William!”

Mrs. De Peyster stood a pillar of ice.