Martie had been eagerly awaiting that luncheon, when a dozen of the prominent young matrons of Monroe should learn of her engagement.  She put up the telephone thoughtfully.  Another delay.  Another respite, when she might still say to herself over and over:  “I could end it now.  It isn’t too late yet!”

In her hand to-day was a brief note brought to land by the tender of the Nippon Maru.  Dean Silver and John had duly sailed, they were far out on the ocean now.  That was settled.  Now there was nothing to do but go on serenely with her interrupted plans.

And yet the restless excitement caused by his coming was still about her, she could not make herself forget.  Everything that his odd and vibrant personality had touched was changed to her.  The wallflowers he had twisted unseeingly in his nervous fingers, the kitchen where their eager, ardent talk had gone on over the boiling of coffee and the mixing of muffins, the hill they had climbed in gray, warm moonlight, these things belonged to him now.  Martie touched the books he had praised tenderly, hearing his words again.

He had not written her:  she knew why.  She must be all or nothing to John now.  He had not spoken of her to Dean, he was trying in his blundering boyish way to forget.

The novelist’s note was short, and written in a tone of disappointment and reproach.  Martie read it, and winced as she crumpled it in her hand.  Presently she straightened it out, and read it again.  She flattened it on the desk before her, and studied it resolutely, with reddened cheeks, and with a little pang at her heart.

Sally came in, full of happy plans.  There was talk now of making Joe resident physician at the hospital, with a little house up there right near the big building.  It would be so dignified, bubbled Sally, setting little Mary on the desk, where she and Aunt Mart could each tie a small, dragging shoe-lace.

“Of course, this won’t be for a year or two, Mart—­but think of the fun!  A pretty house with a big porch, to match the main building, I suppose—­”

“But you’ll be a mile out of town, Sis!”

“Oh, I know—­but I can run the children in to school in the Ford, and you’ll have your own car, and that’s all I really care about!  This is only a possibility, you know.  What are you thinking about, Mart?”

Martie laughed guiltily.

“I don’t know what I was thinking,” she confessed.  Sally flushed, studying her with bright eyes.

“Have you heard—­”

“From John?  No, but he sailed.  I have a note from Mr. Silver here.  He was anxious to get him away, and they left suddenly.  The sailing list was in the paper, too, with a little notice of them both.  It’s better so, I’m glad it’s settled.  But I wish I was a little more sure of what the next step should be.”

“I don’t believe Rose’s Doris has the measles at all,” Sally said thoughtfully, “and in that case, the luncheon will be in a day or two, and won’t that be rather—­rather a relief to you?  Oh, and Mart,” she broke off suddenly to say, “I have a letter for you here--Teddy and Billy called for the mail yesterday, and they left this with mine.”