“George, this is Mary,” said Mary, a moment later.  Silence.  “George, darling,” said Mary, in a rush, “I am so sorry about Mamma, and I realize how trying it is for you, and I’m so sorry I took what you said at breakfast that way.  Don’t worry, dear, we’ll settle her somehow.  And I’ll spare you all I can!  George, would you like me to come down to the office at six, and have dinner somewhere?  She won’t be here until tomorrow.  And my new hat has come, and I want to wear it—?” She paused; there was a moment’s silence before George’s warm, big voice answered: 

“You are absolutely the most adorable angel that ever breathed, Mary.  You make me ashamed of myself.  I’ve been sitting here as blue as indigo.  Everything going wrong!  Those confounded Carter people got the order for the Whitely building—­you remember I told you about it?  It was a three-million dollar contract.

“Oh, George!” Mary lamented.

“Oh, well, it’s not serious, dear.  Only I thought we ’had it nailed.’  I’d give a good deal to know how Carter does it.  Sometimes I have the profoundest contempt for that fellow’s methods—­then he lands something like this.  I don’t believe he can handle it, either.”

“I hate that man!” said Mary, calmly.  George laughed boyishly.

“Well, you were an angel to telephone,” he said.  “Come early, sweetheart, and we’ll go up to Macbeth’s,—­they say it’s quite an extraordinary collection.  And don’t worry—­I’ll be nice to Mamma.  And wear your blessed little pink hat—­”

Mary went upstairs ten minutes later with a singing heart.  Let Mamma and her attendant problems arrive tomorrow if she must.  Today would be all their own!  She began to dress at three o’clock, as pleasantly excited as a girl.  She laid her prettiest white linen gown beside the pink hat on the bed, selected an especially frilled petticoat, was fastidious over white shoes and silken stockings.

The big house was very still.  Lizzie, hitherto un-compromisingly a cook, had so far unbent this summer as to offer to fill the place of waitress as well as her own.  Today she had joyously accepted Mary’s offer of a whole unexpected free afternoon and evening.  Mary was alone, and rather enjoying it.  She walked, trailing her ruffled wrapper, to one of the windows, and looked down on the Drive.  It was almost deserted.

While she stood there idle and smiling, a taxicab veered to the curb, hesitated, came to a full stop.  Out of it came a small gloved hand with a parasol clasped in it, a small struggling foot in a gray suede shoe, a small doubled-up form clad in gray-blue silk, a hat covered with corn-flowers.

Mamma had arrived, as Mamma always did, unexpectedly.

Mary stared at the apparition with a sudden rebellious surge at her heart.  She knew what this meant, but for a moment the full significance of it seemed too exasperating to be true.  Oh, how could she!—­spoil their last day together, upset their plans, madden George afresh, when he was only this moment pacified!  Mary uttered an impatient little sigh as she went down to open the door; but it was the anticipation of George’s vexation—­not her own—­that stirred her, and the sight of Mamma was really unwelcome to Mary only because of George’s lack of welcome.