“And I’ll help you get them!” Mary cried excitedly.  “You’ll find me tagging around after you most of the time.  For, think of it, you’re the only woman I’m going to see in months!”

“Ye—­yes, Mary.”

“Jack, you run along, there’s a dear,” commanded Mary, “and unpack your things.  Matilda and I want to have a little chat.”

“Married six hours, and bossed already,” grumbled Jack happily.  “All right.  But that bit of a squab I ate was nothing.  I’m starved.  I’ll be back in five minutes and then we’ll get a real supper down in the kitchen.”

“Yes, all three of us,” agreed Mary.

Jack picked up his bag.  Frantically Mrs. De Peyster tried to think of some way of holding him back from a possible damnatory encounter with Matilda upon the stairway.  But she could think of nothing.  Jack went out.

Mary ordered Mrs. De Peyster into a chair, and sat down facing her.

Mrs. De Peyster strained her ears for the surprised voices that would announce the disastrous meeting.  But there sounded from above no startled cries.  Jack must have got to his room, unnoticed by Matilda.  Mrs. De Peyster breathed just a little easier.  The evil moment was put off.

“Matilda,” began Mary, “I want you to tell me the honest truth about something.  I think Jack’s been trying to deceive me.  To make me feel better, the dear boy, he’s been telling me there’d not be the least doubt about his mother being reconciled to our marriage.  Do you think she ever will be?”

“Well—­well—­”

“Please!  Will she, or won’t she?”

“You can only—­only hope—­for the best.”

“I hope she will, for Jack’s sake!” sighed Mary deeply.  She picked up an evening paper Jack had brought in.  “Did you know his mother was very ill at the time she sailed?  This paper says she was so sick that she was unable to see a single one of her friends who came to see her off.  That was too bad, wasn’t it!” There was a great deal of genuine feeling in the voice of the small person.

Mrs. De Peyster remained silent.

“Why, you don’t seem at all sympathetic, Matilda!”

Mrs. De Peyster put a hand to her lips.  “I’m—­I’m very sorry, ma’am,” she mumbled between her fingers, trying to assume Matilda’s humility.

“Why, what’s the matter with your voice?  It seems husky.”

“It’s just”—­Mrs. De Peyster swallowed—­a little summer cold I caught to-day.  It’s—­it’s nothing, ma’am.”

“I’m sorry!” exclaimed the little person.  “But, Matilda, how many more times have I got to tell you I don’t like your ‘ma’aming’ me.  Call me Mary.”

“Very well—­Mary.”

“That’s right.  And now, as to Jack’s mother; the paper says society is very much concerned over her condition.”