“I beg your pardon?” she had to say, her eyes moving quickly from him to his companion, who had turned about in the seat, and was watching them.  Her heart stopped beating for a second, then, commenced to race.  Her colour rose in a radiant flood.  With three swift steps she had passed the big man, and was at the curb, and leaning over the car.

“John—!” she stammered.  “My dear—­my dear!”

The man in the car turned upon her the smile she knew so well:  a child’s half-merry, half-wistful smile, from sea-blue eyes in fair lashes.  Time vanished, and Martie felt that she might have seen it yesterday; have felt yesterday the muscular grip of John Dryden’s hand.  Bewildered at their own emotion, laughing and confused, their fingers clung together.

“Hello—­Martie!” he said, in a shaken voice, his blue eyes suddenly blazing as he saw her.  Martie’s eyes were wet, her delight turning her cheeks to rose.  John did not speak, unless his burning eyes spoke; and Martie for a few minutes was hardly intelligible.  It was the stranger who spoke.

“I’m Dean Silver, Mrs. Bannister—­you don’t have to be introduced to me, because I know John here.  You’re his favourite topic, you know.”

“Dean Silver!” Martie smiled bewilderedly at the novelist; she knew that name!  He was a writer with twenty books to his credit.  He had a ranch somewhere in California; he spent his winters there.  Some hazy recollection struggled for recognition.

“But, John!” she laughed.  “Here in Monroe!  My dear, you’ll never know what it meant to glance up and see you—­and you look so well!  And you’re famous, too; isn’t it wonderful!  And, tell me, what brings you to California!”

The quick, authoritative glance was delightfully familiar, yet somehow new.

“Why, you brought me, of course, Martie,” he said unsmilingly, as if any other supposition would have been absurd.  He had not spoken before; she knew now that she had hungered for his rather deep, ready voice.  Her colour came up, her heart gave a curious twist, and she dropped her eyes.

“Dryden and I have been batching it together in New York,” said Dean Silver.  “My wife’s been here since April with her mother and our kid.  When I came on, I got Dryden here to come, too.  They want me to take a long sea trip:  I hope you’ll help me persuade him to come, too.  He’s trying to double-cross me on it, I think.  He said he’d come as far as California, and then see how things looked.  So we shipped the car last month, and left New York a week ago to-day.”

“Well, Monroe is honoured,” Martie smiled, amused, fluttered, a little confused by this open recognition of John’s feeling.  “But now that you’re here, I don’t know quite what to do with you!”

“There’s a hotel?” asked the novelist.

“Oh, it’s not that.  I’m only anxious to make the most of you,” said Martie.  “We’ve more than enough room at our house!  But, like poor Fanny Squeers, I do so palpitate!”