“That ought to carry the day for the Catskills, Kate.  What sort of habitation shall we choose?  A big hotel, or a select private boarding house?”

“Oh, a big hotel, of course—­ the biggest there is, whatever its name may be.  One of those whose rates are so high that the proprietor daren’t advertise them, but says in his announcement, ’for terms apply to the manager.’  It must have ample grounds, support an excellent band, and advertise a renowned cuisine.  Your room, at least, should have a private balcony on which you can place a telescope and watch the building of your church down below.  I, being a humble person in a subordinate position, should have a balcony also to make up for those deficiencies.”

“Very well, Kate, that’s settled.  But although two lone women may set up housekeeping in a New York flat, they cannot very well go alone to a fashionable hotel.”

“Oh, yes, we can.  Best of references given and required.”

“I was going to suggest,” pursued Dorothy, not noticing the interruption, “that we invite your father and mother to accompany us.  They might enjoy a change from sea air to mountain air.”

Katherine frowned a little, and demurred.

“Are you going to be fearfully conventional, Dorothy?”

“We must pay some attention to the conventions, don’t you think?”

“I had hoped not.  I yearn to be a bachelor girl, and own a latch-key.”

“We shall each possess a latch-key when we settle down in New York.  Our flat will be our castle, and, although our latch-key will let us in, our Yale lock will keep other people out.  A noted summer resort calls for different treatment, because there we lead a semi-public life.  Besides, I am selfish enough to wish my coming-out to be under the auspices of so well-known a man as Captain Kempt.”

“All right, I’ll see what they say about it.  You don’t want Sabina, I take it?”

“Yes, if she will consent to come.”

“I doubt if she will, but I’ll see.  Besides, now that I come to think about it, it’s only fair I should allow my doting parents to know that I am about to desert them.”

With that Katherine quitted the room, and went down the stairs hippety-hop.

Dorothy drew the letter from its place of concealment, and read it for the third time, although one not interested might have termed it a most commonplace document.  It began: 

“Dear Miss Amhurst,” and ended “Yours most sincerely, Alan Drummond.”  It gave some account of his doings since he bade good-bye to her.  A sailor, he informed her, needs little time for packing his belongings, and on the occasion in question the Prince had been of great assistance.  They set out together for the early morning train, and said “au revoir” at the station.  Drummond had intended to sail from New York, but a friendly person whom he met on the train informed him that the Liverpool liner “Enthusiana” set out from Boston next day, so he had abandoned the New York idea, and had taken passage on the liner named, on whose note-paper he wrote the letter, which epistle was once more concealed as Dorothy heard Katherine’s light step on the stair.