Relieved by this revelation, it was easy work for Mrs. Horncastle to launch out into a playful, tantalizing, witty—­but, I grieve to say, entirely imaginative—­account of her escapade with Mrs. Barker.  How, left alone at the San Francisco hotel while their gentlemen friends were enjoying themselves at Hymettus, they resolved upon a little trip, partly for the purpose of looking into some small investments of their own, and partly for the fun of the thing.  What funny experiences they had!  How, in particular, one horrid inquisitive, vulgar wretch had been boring a European fellow passenger who was going to Hymettus, finally asking him where he had come from last, and when he answered “Hymettus,” thought the man was insulting him—­

“But,” interrupted the laughing Barker, “that passenger may have been Demorest, who has just come from Greece, and surely Kitty would have recognized him.”

Mrs. Horncastle instantly saw her blunder, and not only retrieved it, but turned it to account.  Ah, yes! but by that time poor Kitty, unused to long journeys and the heat, was utterly fagged out, was asleep, and perfectly unrecognizable in veils and dusters on the back seat of the coach.  And this brought her to the point—­which was, that she was sorry to say, on arriving, the poor child was nearly wild with a headache from fatigue and had gone to bed, and she had promised not to disturb her.

The undisguised amusement, mingled with relief, that had overspread Barker’s face during this lively recital might have pricked the conscience of Mrs. Horncastle, but for some reason I fear it did not.  But it emboldened her to go on.  “I said I promised her that I would see she wasn’t disturbed; but, of course, now that you, her husband, have come, if”—­

“Not for worlds,” interrupted Barker earnestly.  “I know poor Kitty’s headaches, and I never disturb her, poor child, except when I’m thoughtless.”  And here one of the most thoughtful men in the world in his sensitive consideration of others beamed at her with such frank and wonderful eyes that the arch hypocrite before him with difficulty suppressed a hysterical desire to laugh, and felt the conscious blood flush her to the root of her hair.  “You know,” he went on, with a sigh, half of relief and half of reminiscence, “that I often think I’m a great bother to a clear-headed, sensible girl like Kitty.  She knows people so much better than I do.  She’s wonderfully equipped for the world, and, you see, I’m only ‘lucky,’ as everybody says, and I dare say part of my luck was to have got her.  I’m very glad she’s a friend of yours, you know, for somehow I fancied always that you were not interested in her, or that you didn’t understand each other until now.  It’s odd that nice women don’t always like nice women, isn’t it?  I’m glad she was with you; I was quite startled to learn she was here, and couldn’t make it out.  I thought at first she might have got anxious about our little Sta, who is with me and the nurse at Hymettus.  But I’m glad it was only a lark.  I shouldn’t wonder,” he added, with a laugh, “although she always declares she isn’t one of those ‘doting, idiotic mothers,’ that she found it a little dull without the boy, for all she thought it was better for me to take him somewhere for a change of air.”