“I don’t see how,” he reassured her.  “Ella naturally can’t give it to them, for she will think you are at your aunt’s.  Your aunt—–­”

“Oh, I shall write the truth to Auntie,” Susan said, soberly.  “Write her from Honolulu, probably.  And wild horses wouldn’t get it out of her.  But if the slightest thing should go wrong—–­”

“Nothing will, dear.  We’ll drift about the world awhile, and the first thing you know you’ll find yourself married hard and tight, and being invited to dinners and lunches and things in New York!”

Susan’s dimples came into view.

“I forget what a very big person you are,” she smiled.  “I begin to think you can do anything you want to do!”

She had a reminder of his greatness even before they left the tea-room, for while they were walking up the wide passage toward the arcade, a young woman, an older woman, and a middle-aged man, suddenly addressed the writer.

“Oh, do forgive me!” said the young woman, “but aren’t you Stephen Graham Bocqueraz?  We’ve been watching you—­I just couldn’t help—­”

“My daughter is a great admirer—–­” the man began, but the elder woman interrupted him.

“We’re all great admirers of your books, Mr. Bocqueraz,” said she, “but it was Helen, my daughter here!—­who was sure she recognized you.  We went to your lecture at our club, in Los Angeles—–­”

Stephen shook hands, smiled and was very gracious, and Susan, shyly smiling, too, felt her heart swell with pride.  When they went on together the little episode had subtly changed her attitude toward him; Susan was back for the moment in her old mood, wondering gratefully what the great man saw in her to attract him!

A familiar chord was touched when an hour later, upon getting out of a carriage at her aunt’s door, she found the right of way disputed by a garbage cart, and Mary Lou, clad in a wrapper, holding the driver in spirited conversation through a crack in the door.  Susan promptly settled a small bill, kissed Mary Lou, and went upstairs in harmonious and happy conversation.

“I was just taking a bath!” said Mary Lou, indignantly.  Mary Lou never took baths easily, or as a matter of course.  She always made an event of them, choosing an inconvenient hour, assembling soap, clothing and towels with maddening deliberation, running about in slippered feet for a full hour before she locked herself into, and everybody else out of, the bathroom.  An hour later she would emerge from the hot and steam-clouded apartment, to spend another hour in her room in leisurely dressing.  She was at this latter stage now, and regaled Susan with all the family news, as she ran her hand into stocking after stocking in search of a whole heel, and forced her silver cuff-links into the starched cuffs of her shirtwaist.