“Is that all?  Let’s go, then.  We can walk back as well as to go on.”

“But,—­don’t laugh, now,—­I feel we ought to hurry.  Let’s take the trolley-car,—­it isn’t far to the line.”

“You sure have got a hunch!  But your will is my law.  Wish we were near a garage,—­I’m not a bit fond of Sunday trolley riding!”

“I’m not either,—­but, Phil, you’re awful good not to laugh at me.”

“Bless your soul, I’ve no notion of laughing at you!  Your presentiment may be the real thing,—­for all I know.  Anyway, if you want to go home, you’re going.”

So go they did, and, by the trolley-car route, arrived at the house in half an hour.

As they passed the Gales’ place, on their way from the car-line to the house, Van Reypen said, “Guess I’ll stop here a minute if you don’t mind.  I left my pet pipe here yesterday.  Skip along home, and I’ll follow.”

Azalea went on and was surprised to find the house deserted.

She went straight to the nursery, and found Fleurette in the care of Janet, who was substitute nurse in Winnie’s absence.

“Everything all right, Janet?” said Azalea.

“Yes, Miss Thorpe.  Baby’s had her milk, and I think she’ll soon go to sleep.”

“She doesn’t look much like it now,” and Azalea smiled at the gurgling, laughing child, who was wide awake and in frolicsome mood.

“Where’s Mrs. Farnsworth?” Azalea asked.

“She went motoring with Miss Gale.  They all went,—­and all the help have gone too.  I’m alone in the house with the baby.”

“Glad I came home, then.  Mr. Van Reypen is here too, and I think I’ll take Fleurette down on the porch for half an hour.  When she gets sleepy I’ll bring her up here.”

“Very well, Miss Thorpe.  I’ll be here.”

Janet busied herself about the nursery and Azalea went downstairs with the baby in her arms.

On the vine-shaded porch they sat, and as Van Reypen stayed chatting with some of the Gale family, Azalea and the baby were each other’s sole companions.

Their conversation was a little one-sided, but Azalea’s remarks were mostly eulogies and compliments and Fleurette’s engaging smiles seemed to betoken appreciation if not acknowledgment.

A footstep approaching made Azalea look up.

Before her stood Mr. Merritt, the assistant director of the film company.

“Good afternoon, Miss Thorpe,” he said, politely; “I see the little one is in a sunshiny mood.”

“Yes;” Azalea returned, but her very soul quaked with fear.  Well she knew what was in this man’s mind.

“And so, I’m going to ask you to run over to the studio just a few minutes and give us one more chance at a good picture of that scene.”

“And I’m going to refuse,” Azalea returned with spirit.  “You know very well, Mr. Merritt, that I’m not going to let you pose this child again.”

“I know you are,—­and mighty quick, too,” he retorted, in a low voice, but tones of great determination.  “I know everybody is out,—­you are practically alone in the house, and I know you’re coming with me,—­willing or not!  It won’t hurt the baby a mite,—­I’ve my little car out in the road,—­and if you don’t consent,—­I’ll—­”