Madge, listening to further details of the Meredith fortunes, wondered how much of this Georgie knew.  “Becky’s mother died when she was five, and her father two years later,” Mrs. Flippin was saying.  “She might have been spoiled to death if she had been brought up as some children are.  But she has spent her winters at the convent with Sister Loretto, and she’s never worn much of anything but the uniform of the school.  You wouldn’t think that she had any money to see her, would you, Miss MacVeigh?”

“No, you wouldn’t,” said Madge, truthfully.

It was after nine o’clock—­a warm night—­with no sound but the ticking of the clock and the insistent hum of locusts.

“Mrs. Flippin,” said Madge, “I wish you’d call up Hamilton Hill and ask for Mr. Dalton, and tell him that Miss MacVeigh would like to have him come and see her if he has nothing else on hand.”

Mrs. Flippin looked her astonishment.  “To-night?”

“Oh, I am not going to receive him this way,” Madge reassured her.  “If he can come, I’ll get nurse to dress me and make me comfy in the sitting-room.”

Having ascertained that Dalton would be over at once, the nurse was called, and Madge was made ready.  It was a rather high-handed proceeding, and both Mrs. Flippin and the nurse stood aghast.

The nurse protested.  “You really ought not, Miss MacVeigh.”

“I love to do things that I ought not to do.”

“But you’ll tire yourself.”

“If you were my Mary,” said Mrs. Flippin severely, “I wouldn’t let you have your way——­”

“I love to have my own way, Mrs. Flippin.  And—­I am not your Mary”—­then fearing that she had hurt the kind heart, she caught Mrs. Flippin’s hand in her own and kissed it,—­“but I wish I were.  You’re such a lovely mother.”

Mrs. Flippin smiled at her.  “I’m as near like your mother as a hen is mother to a bluebird.”

Madge, robed in the mauve gown, refused to have her hair touched.  “I like it in braids,” and so when George came there she sat in the sitting-room, all gold and mauve—­a charming picture for his sulky eyes.

“Oh,” she said, as he came in, in a gray sack suit, with a gray cap in his hand, “why, you aren’t even dressed for dinner!”

“Why should I be?” he demanded.  “Kemp has left me.”

She had expected something different.  “Kemp?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“He didn’t give any reason.  Just said he was going—­and went.  He said he had intended to go before, and had only stayed until Mrs. Waterman was better.  Offered to stay on a little longer if it would embarrass me any to have him leave.  I told him that if he wanted to go, he could get out now.  And he is packing his bags.”

“But what will you do without him?”

“I have wired to New York for a Jap.”

“Where will Kemp go?”

“To King’s Crest.  To work for that lame officer—­Prime.”