“Do you want to intimate, sir,” demanded Mary with mock hauteur, “that my playing sounds like a—­”

“What I want to intimate, madam, is that I’d like to avoid having our happy home raided by the police.  Matilda, you could do that, couldn’t you—­just casually?”

“Yes—­M—­Mr. Jack,” mumbled Mrs. De Peyster.

“There, everything’s settled.  We’ll go up to our rooms.  You wouldn’t mind helping us a bit, Matilda?”

Mrs. De Peyster had one supreme thought.  If they went upstairs, they might run into the other Matilda.  The frantic, drowning impulse to put off disaster every possible moment caused her to clutch Jack’s arm.

“There’s—­something to eat—­in the dining-room.  Perhaps you’d like—­”

“Great idea, Matilda!  Lead on.”

Mrs. De Peyster gave thanks that all the lights but one had been switched off.  And fortunately the light from that one shaded bulb was almost lost in the great dining-room.  Subconsciously Mrs. De Peyster recalled Matilda’s injunction to “be humble,” and she let her manner slump—­though at that moment she had no particular excess of dignity to discard.

Jack sighted the food Matilda had left upon the table.  With a swoop he was upon it.

“Oh, joy!  Squabs!  Asparagus!” And he seized a squab by the legs, with a hand that was still bandaged.  “Here you are, my dear,” tearing off a leg and handing it to Mary, who accepted it gingerly.  With much gusto Jack took a bite of bird and a huge bite of bread.  “Great little wedding supper, Matilda!  Thanks.  But I say, Matilda, you haven’t yet spoken up about meine liebe Frau.  Don’t you think she’ll do?”

“Now, Jack dear, don’t be a fool!”

“Mrs. Jack de Peyster, I’ll have you understand your husband can’t be a fool!  Come now, Matilda,—­my bonny bride, look at her.  Better lift your veil.”

Mrs. De Peyster did not lift her veil.  But helplessly she gave a glance toward this new wife Jack had thus brought home:  a glance so distracted that it could see nothing but vibrating blurs.

“Well?  Well?” prompted Jack.  “Won’t she do?”

“Yes,” in a husky whisper.

“And don’t you think, when mother sees her, she’ll say the same?”

“I’m sure—­I’m sure—­” her choking voice could get out no more.

“Oh, but I shall be so afraid!” cried Mary, again with that shivery little laugh.

“Nothing to be afraid of, Mary.  Mother’s really a good sort.”

“Jack!  To call one’s mother a ’good sort’!”

“Why not?  She’s bug-house on this social position business, but aside from that she’s perfectly human.”

“Jack!” in her scandalized tone.  “Isn’t he awful Matilda?”

“Ye—­yes, ma’am.”

“Don’t call me ‘ma’am,’ Matilda.  Since we’re to be together constantly this summer, call me Mary.”

“Yes, ma’a—­Mary.”

“That’s right, Matilda,” put in Jack.  “We’re going to run this place as a democracy.  You’re to have all your meals with us.”