“But what,” suggested her husband—­“what if, in grasping at the shadow, I lose the reality?  I’d rather lose twenty opportunities than my only wife, and what’s to become of you while I go down to Broad Street?  Do you propose to sit in the station?”

“I propose nothing of the kind,” she laughed.  “I shall go straight to the Ruissillard and wait for you.  Dick and Gladys may be there already.”

Although Mr. John Blake received this suggestion with elaborate disfavor and disclaimer it was clear to the pretty eyes of Mrs. John Blake that he hailed it with delight, and she was full of theories upon marital co-operation and of eagerness to put them into practice.  None of her husband’s objections could daunt her, and before he had adjusted himself to the situation he had packed his wife into a hansom, given the cabman careful instructions and a careless tip, and was standing on the step admonishing his bride: 

“Be sure to tell them that we must have out-side rooms.  Have the baggage sent up, but don’t touch it.  If you open a trunk or lift a tray before I arrive I shall instantly send you home to your mother as incorrigible.”

“Very well,” she agreed; “I’ll be good.”

“And then, if Gladys is there—­it’s only an off-chance that they come before to-morrow—­get her to sit with you.  But don’t go wandering about the hotel by yourself.  And, above all, don’t go out.”

“Goosie,” said she, “of course I shan’t go out.  Where should I go?”

“And you’re sure, sure, sure that you don’t mind?” he asked for the dozenth time.

“Goosie,” said she again, “I am quite, quite sure of it.  Now go or you will surely miss your appointment and disappoint your uncle.”

After two or three more questions of his and assurances of hers the cab was allowed to swing out into the current.  John had given the driver careful navigation orders, and Marjorie leaned back contentedly enough and watched the busy people, all hot and haggard, as New York’s people sometimes are in the first warm days of May.  Her collection of illustrated post-cards had prepared her to identify many of the places she passed, but once or twice she felt, a little ruefully the difference between this, her actual first glimpse of New York and the same first glimpse as she and John had planned it before the benign, but hardly felicitous, interference of Uncle Richard.  This feeling of loneliness was strongly in the ascendent when the cab stopped under an ornate portico and two large male creatures, in powdered wigs and white silk stockings, emerged before her astonished eyes.  Open flew her little door, down jumped the cabman, out rushed other menials and laid hands upon her baggage.  Horses fretted, pedestrians risked their lives, motors snorted and newsboys clamored as an enormous police-appearing person assisted her to alight.  He had such an air of having been expecting and longing for her arrival that she wondered innocently whether John had telephoned