“I shouldn’t let that distress me if I were you.  As far as Dorothea is concerned, your young man Wappinger doesn’t exist.”

“That’s as it may be,” Miss Lucilla sniffed, now on the brink of tears.

“That’s as it is,” he insisted, picking up his hat.

“It’s to be regretted,” he added, with dignity, as he took his leave, “that on this subject you and I cannot see alike; but I think you may trust me not to endanger the happiness of my child.”

* * * * *

Even if Diane could have transcended space to assist at this brief interview, she would probably have missed its bearing on herself; but had she transported her spirit at the same instant to still another scene, the effect would have been more enlightening.  While she still stood watching the rise and dip of the steamer’s bow, Mrs. Wappinger, in a larger and more elaborate mansion than the old-fashioned house in Gramercy Park, was reading to her son such portions of a letter from James van Tromp as she considered it discreet for him to hear.  A stout, florid lady, in jovial middle age, her appearance as an agent in her affairs would certainly have surprised Diane, had the vision been vouchsafed to her.

Passing over those sentences in which the old man admitted the wisdom of her decision in rejecting his proposals, on the ground that he saw now that the married state would not have suited him, Mrs. Wappinger came to what was of common interest.

“‘...  You will remember, my good friend,’” she read, with a strong Western accent, “’that both at the time of, and since, your husband’s death I have been helpful to you in your business affairs, and laid you under some obligation to me.  I have, therefore, no scruple in asking you to fulfil a few wishes of mine, in token of such gratitude as I conceive you to feel.  There will arrive in your city by the steamer Picardie, on the twenty-eighth day of this month, two foolish women, answering to the name of Eveleth—­mother-in-law and daughter-in-law—­both widows—­and presenting the sorry spectacle of Naomi and Ruth returning to the Land of Promise, after a ruinous sojourn in a foreign country—­with whose history you are familiar from your reading of the Scriptures.’”

“Is there a Bible in the house, mother?” Carli Wappinger asked, swinging himself on the piano-stool.

“I think there must be—­somewhere.  There used to be one.  But, hush!  Let me go on.  ‘They will descend,’” she continued to read, “’at a modest French hostelry in University Place, to which I have commended them, as being within their means.  I desire, first, that you will make their acquaintance at your earliest possible convenience.  I desire, next, that you will invite them to your house on some occasion, presumably in the afternoon, when you can also ask my nephew, Derek Pruyn, and Lucilla van Tromp, my niece, to meet them.  I desire, furthermore, that though you may use my name to the Mesdames Eveleth, as a passport to their presence, you will in no wise speak of me to my relatives in question, or give them to understand that I have inspired the invitation you will accord them....’”