“It’s always this way,” said Mr. Cooke, regretfully, as he watched Sarah licking the accessible furrows in her face; “I never started in on anything worth doing yet that Maria did not stop it.”

Farrar and I were not available for the dance, and after dinner we looked about for a quiet spot in which to weather it, and where we could be within reach if needed.  Such a place as this was the Florentine galleried porch, which ran along outside the upper windows of the ball-room; these were flung open, for the night was warm.  At one end of the room the musicians, imported from Minneapolis by Mr. Cooke, were striking the first discordant notes of the tuning, while at the other the Celebrity and my client, in scarlet hunting-coats, were gravely instructing the Ten, likewise in scarlet hunting-coats, as to their conduct and functions.  We were reviewing these interesting proceedings when Mrs. Cooke came hurrying towards us.  She held a letter in her hand.

“You know,” said she, “that Mr. Cooke is forgetful, particularly when his mind is occupied with important matters, as it has been for some time.  Here is a letter from my niece, Miss Thorn, which he has carried in his pocket since Monday.  We expected her two weeks ago, and had given her up.  But it seems she was to leave Philadelphia on Wednesday, and will be at that forlorn little station of Asquith at half-past nine to-night.  I want you two to go over and meet her.”

We expressed our readiness, and in ten minutes were in the station wagon, rolling rapidly down the long drive, for it was then after nine.  We passed on the way the van of the guests from Asquith.  As we reached the lodge we heard the whistle, and we backed up against one side of the platform as the train pulled up at the other.

Farrar and I are not imaginative; we did not picture to ourselves any particular type for the girl we were going to meet, we were simply doing our best to get to the station before the train.  We jumped from the wagon and were watching the people file out of the car, and I noticed that more than one paused to look back over their shoulders as they reached the door.  Then came a maid with hand-bag and shawls, and after her a tall young lady.  She stood for a moment holding her skirt above the grimy steps, with something of the stately pose which Richter has given his Queen Louise on the stairway, and the light of the reflector fell full upon her.  She looked around expectantly, and recognizing Mrs. Cooke’s maid, who had stepped forward to relieve hers of the shawls, Miss Thorn greeted her with a smile which greatly prepossessed us in her favor.

“How do you do, Jennie?” she said.  “Did any one else come?”

“Yes, Miss Marian,” replied Jennie, abashed but pleased,—­“these gentlemen.”

Farrar and I introduced ourselves, awkwardly enough, and we both tried to explain at once how it was that neither Mr. nor Mrs. Cooke was there to meet her.  Of course we made an absolute failure of it.  She scanned our faces with a puzzled expression for a while and then broke into a laugh.