The thought sent her toward the nursery door.  As she went she glanced back over a shoulder uneasily.

Close to the door she paused.  Miss Royle was not yet gone, for there was a faint rustling in the next room.  And Gwendolyn could hear the quick shoo-ish, shoo-ish, shoo-ish of her whispering, like the low purl of Johnnie Blake’s trout-stream.

Presently, silence.

Gwendolyn went in.

She found Jane standing in the center of the room, mouth puckered soberly, reddish eyes winking with disquiet, apprehension in the very set of her heavy shoulders.

The sight halted Gwendolyn, and filled her with misgivings.  Had Jane just heard?

When it came time to prepare for the afternoon motor-ride, Gwendolyn tested the matter—­yet without repeating Miss Royle’s dire statement.

“Let’s go past where my fath-er’s office is to-day,” she proposed.  And tried to smile.

Jane was tucking a small hand through a coat-sleeve.  “Well, dearie,” she answered, with a sigh and a shake of her red head, “you couldn’t hire me to go into that street.  And I wouldn’t like to see you go.”

Gwendolyn paled.  “Bears?” she asked. “Truly?”

Jane made big eyes.  Then turning the slender little figure carefully about, “Gwendolyn, lovie, Jane thinks you’d better give the idear up.”

So it was true!  Jane—­who was happiest when standing in opposition to others; who was certain to differ if a difference was possible—­Jane had borne it out!

Moreover, she was frightened!  For Gwendolyn was leaning against the nurse.  And she could feel her shaking!

Oh, how one terrible thing followed another!

Gwendolyn felt utterly cast down.  And the ride in the swift-flying car only increased her dejection.  For she did not even have the entertainment afforded by Thomas’s enlivening company.  He stayed beside the chauffeur—­as he had, indeed, ever since the memorable feast of peanuts—­and avoided turning his haughty black head.  Jane was morose.  Now and then, for no apparent reason, she sniffled.

Gwendolyn’s mind was occupied by a terrifying series of pictures that Miss Royle’s declaration called up.  The central figure of each picture was her father, his safety threatened.  Arrived home, she resolved upon still another course of action.  She was forced to give up visiting her father at his office.  But she would steal down to the grown-up part of the house—­at a time other than the dinner-hour—­that very night!

Evening fell, and she was not asked to appear in the great dining-room.  That strengthened her determination.  However, to give a hint of it would be folly.  So, while Miss Royle picked at a chop and tittered over copious draughts of tea, and Thomas chattered unrebuked, she ate her supper in silence.

Ordinarily she rebelled at being undressed.  She was not sleepy.  Or she wanted to watch the Drive.  Or she did not believe it was seven—­there was something wrong with the clock.  But supper over, and seven o’clock on the strike, she went willingly to bed.