Anne Thorpe remained in Europe for a year, returning to New York shortly
before the breaking out of the Great War. She went to the Ritz, where she
took an apartment. A day or two after her arrival in the city, she sent
for Wade.
"Wade," she said, as the old valet stood smirking before her in the little
sitting-room, "I have decided not to re-open the house. I shall never re-
open it. I do not intend to live there."
The man turned a sickly green. His voice shook a little. "Are—are you
going to close it—for good,—madam?"
"I sent for you this morning to inquire if you are willing to continue
living there as caretaker until—"
"You may depend on me, Mrs. Thorpe, to—" he broke in eagerly.
"—until I make up my mind what to do with the property," she concluded.
He hesitated, clearing his throat. "I beg pardon for mentioning it, ma'am,
but the will said that you would have to live in the house and that you
may not sell it or do anything—"
"I know," she interrupted shortly. "I sha'n't sell the house, of course.
On the other hand, I do not intend to live in it. I don't care what
becomes of it, Wade."
"It's worth a great deal of money," he ventured.
She was not interested. "But so am I," she said curtly. "By the way, how
have you fared, Wade? You do not look as though you have made the best of
your own good fortune. Are you not a trifle thinner?"
The man looked down at the rug. "I am quite well, thank you. A little
older, of course,—that's all. I haven't had a sick day in years."
"Why do you stay on in service? You have means of your own,—quite a handy
fortune, I should say. I cannot understand your willingness, to coop
yourself up in that big old house, when you might be out seeing something
of life, enjoying your money and—you are a very strange person, Wade."
He favoured her with his twisted smile. "We can't all be alike, madam," he
said. "Besides, I couldn't see very much of life with my small pot of
gold. I shall always stick to my habit, I suppose, of earning my daily
bread."
"I see. Then I may depend upon you to remain in charge of the house?
Whenever you are ready to give it up, pray do not hesitate to come to me.
I will release you, of course."
"I may possibly live to be ninety," he said, encouragingly.
She stared. "You mean—that you will stay on until you die?"
"Seeing that you cannot legally sell the house,—and you will not live in
it,—I hope to be of service to you to the end of my days, madam. Have you
considered the possibility of some one setting up a claim to the property
on account of your—er—violation of the terms of the will?"
"I should be very happy if some one were to do so, Wade," she replied with
a smile. "I should not oppose the claim. Unfortunately there is no one to
take the step. There are no disgruntled relatives."
"Ahem! Mr. Braden, of course, might—er—be regarded as a—"
"Dr. Thorpe will not set up a claim, Wade. You need not be disturbed."
"There is no one else, of course," said he, with a deep breath of relief.
"No one. I can't even _give_ it away. I shall go on paying taxes on it all
my life, I daresay. And repairs and—"
"Repairs won't be necessary, ma'am, unless you have a complaining tenant.
I shall manage to keep the place in good order."
"Are your wages satisfactory, Wade?"
"Quite, madam." Sometimes he remembered not to say "ma'am."
"And your food, your own personal comforts, your—"
"Don't worry about me, madam. I make out very well."
"And you are all alone there? All alone in that dark, grim old house? Oh,
how terribly lonely it must be. I—" she shivered slightly.
"I have a scrub-woman in twice a month, and Murray comes to see me once in
awhile. I read a great deal."
"And your meals?"
"I get my own breakfast, and go down to Sixth Avenue for my luncheons and
dinners. There is an excellent little restaurant quite near, you
see,—conducted by a very estimable Southern lady in reduced circumstances.
Her husband is a Northerner, however, and she doesn't see a great deal of
him. I understand he is a person of very uncertain habits. They say he
gambles. Her daughter assists her with the business. She—but, I beg
pardon; you would not be interested in them."
"I am glad that you are contented, Wade. We will consider the matter
settled, and you will go on as heretofore. You may always find me here, if
you desire to communicate with me at any time."
Wade looked around the room. Anne's maid had come in and was employed in
restoring a quantity of flowers to the boxes in which they had been
delivered. There were roses and violets and orchids in profusion.
Mrs. Thorpe took note of his interest. "You will be interested to hear,
Wade, that my sister-in-law is expecting a little baby very soon. I am
taking the flowers up to her flat."
"A baby," said Wade softly. "That will be fine, madam."
After Wade's departure, Anne ordered a taxi, and, with the half dozen
boxes of flowers piled up in front of her, set out for George's home. On
the way up through the park she experienced a strange sense of exaltation,
a curious sort of tribute to her own lack of selfishness in the matter of
the flowers. This feeling of self-exaltation was so pleasing to her, so
full of promise for further demands upon her newly discovered nature, that
she found herself wondering why she had allowed herself to be cheated out
of so much that was agreeable during all the years of her life! She was
now sincerely in earnest in her desire to be kind and gentle and generous
toward others. She convinced herself of that in more ways than one. In the
first place, she enjoyed thinking first of the comforts of others, and
secondly of herself. That in itself was most surprising to her. Up to a
year or two ago she would have deprived herself of nothing unless there
was some personal satisfaction to be had from the act, such as the
consciousness that the object of her kindness envied her the power to
give, or that she could pity herself for having been obliged to give
without return. Now she found joy in doing the things she once
abhorred,—the unnecessary things, as she had been pleased to describe
them.
She loved Lutie,—and that surprised her more than anything else. She did
not know it, but she was absorbing strength of purpose, independence, and
sincerity from this staunch little woman who was George's wife. She would
have cried out against the charge that Lutie had become an Influence! It
was all right for Lutie to have an influence on the character of George,
but—the thought of anything nearer home than that never entered her head.
As a peculiar—and not especially commendable—example of her present state
of unselfishness, she stopped for luncheon with her pretty little sister-
in-law, and either forgot or calmly ignored the fact that she had promised
Percy Wintermill and his sister to lunch with them at Sherry's. And later
on, when Percy complained over the telephone she apologised with perfect
humility,—surprising him even more than she surprised herself. She did
not, however, feel called upon to explain to him that she had transferred
his orchids to Lutie's living-room. That was another proof of her
consideration for others. She knew that Percy's feelings would have been
hurt.
Lutie was radiantly happy. Her baby was coming in a fortnight.
"You shall have the very best doctor in New York," said Anne, caressing
the fair, tousled head. Her own heart was full.
"We're going to have Braden Thorpe," said Lutie.
Anne started. "But he is not—What you want, Lutie, is a specialist. Braden
is—"
"He's good enough for me," said Lutie serenely. Possibly she was
astonished by the sudden, impulsive kiss that Anne bestowed upon her, and
the more fervent embrace that followed.
That afternoon Anne received many callers. Her home-coming meant a great
deal to the friends who had lost sight of her during the period of
preparation that began, quite naturally, with her marriage to Templeton
Thorpe, and was now to bear its results. She would take her place once
more in the set to which she belonged as a Tresslyn.
Alas, for the memory of old Templeton Thorpe, her one-time intimates in
society were already speaking of her,—absently, of course,—as Anne
Tresslyn. The newspapers might continue to allude to her as the beautiful
Mrs. Thorpe, but that was as far as it would go. Polite society would not
be deceived. It would not deny her the respectability of marriage, to be
sure, but on the other hand, it wouldn't think of her as having been
married to old Mr. Thorpe. It might occasionally give a thought or two to
the money that had once been Mr. Thorpe's, and it might go so far as to
pity Anne because she had been stupid or ill-advised in the matter of a
much-discussed ante-nuptial arrangement, but nothing could alter the fact
that she had never ceased being a Tresslyn, and that there was infinite
justice in the restoration of at least one of the Tresslyns to a state of
affluence. It remains to be seen whether Society's estimate of her was
right or wrong.
Her mother came in for half an hour, and admitted that the baby would be a
good thing for poor George.
"I am rather glad it is coming," she said. "I shall know what to do with
that hateful money she forced me to take back."
"What do you mean, mother?"
Mrs. Tresslyn lifted her lorgnon. "Have you forgotten, my dear?"
"Of course I haven't. But what _do_ you mean?"
"It is perfectly simple, Anne. I mean that as soon as this baby comes I
shall settle the whole of that thirty thousand dollars upon it, and have
it off my mind forever. Heaven knows it has plagued me to—"
"You—but, mother, can you afford to do anything so—"
"My dear, it may interest you to know that your mother possesses a great
deal of that abomination known as pride. I have not spent so much as a
penny of Lutie Car—of my daughter-in-law's money. You look surprised. Have
you been thinking so ill of me as that? Did you believe that I—"
Anne threw her arms about her mother's neck, and kissed her rapturously.
"I see you _did_ believe it of me," said Mrs. Tresslyn drily. Then she
kissed her daughter in return. "I haven't been able to look my daughter-
in-law in the face since she virtually threw all that money back into
mine. I've been almost distracted trying to think of a way to force it
back upon her, so that I might be at peace with myself. This baby will
open the way. It will simplify everything. It shall be worth thirty
thousand dollars in its own right the day it is born."
Anne was beaming. "And on that same day, mother dear, I will replace the
amount that you turn over to—"
"You will do nothing of the kind," said Mrs. Tresslyn sharply. "I am not
doing this thing because I am kind-hearted, affectionate, or even
remorseful. I shall do it because it pleases me, and not for the sake of
pleasing any one else. Now we'll drop the subject. I do hope, however,
that if George doesn't take the trouble to telephone me within a
reasonable time after his child comes into the world—say within a day or
two—I hope you will do so."
"Really, mother, you are a very wonderful person," said Anne, rather wide-
eyed.
"No more wonderful, my dear, than Lutie Carnahan, if you will pause for a
moment to think of what _she_ did."
"She is very proud, and very happy," said Anne dubiously. "She and George
may refuse to accept this—"
"My dear Anne," interrupted her mother calmly, "pray let me remind you
that Lutie is no fool. And now, tell me something about your plans. Where
are you going for the summer?"
"That depends entirely on where my nephew wants to spend the heated term,"
said Anne brightly. "I shall take him and Lutie into the country with me."
Mrs. Tresslyn winced. "It doesn't sound quite so terrible as grandson, at
any rate," she remarked, considering the first sentence only.
"I do hope it will be a boy," mused Anne.
"I believe I could love her if she gave us a boy," said the other. "I am
beginning to feel that we need more men in the family."
One of the last to drop in during the afternoon to welcome Anne back to
the fold was the imposing and more or less redoubtable Mrs. Wintermill,
head of the exclusive family to which Percy belonged. Percy's father was
still alive but he was a business man, and as such he met his family as he
would any other liability: when necessary.
Mrs. Wintermill's first remark after saying that she was glad to see Anne
looking so well was obviously the result of a quick and searching glance
around the room.
"Isn't Percy here?" she inquired.
Anne had just had an uncomfortable half minute on the telephone with
Percy. "Not unless he is hiding behind that couch over there, Mrs.
Wintermill," she said airily. "He is coming up later, I believe."
"I was to meet him here," said Mrs. Wintermill, above flippancy. "Is it
five o'clock?"
"No," said Anne. Mrs. Wintermill smiled again. She was puzzled a little by
the somewhat convulsive gurgle that burst from Anne's lips. "I beg your
pardon. I just happened to think of something." She turned away to say
good-bye to the last of her remaining visitors,—two middle-aged ladies who
had not made her acquaintance until after her marriage to Templeton Thorpe
and therefore were not by way of knowing Mrs. Wintermill without the aid
of opera-glasses. "Do come and see me again."
"Who are they?" demanded Mrs. Wintermill before the servant had time to
close the door behind the departing ones. She did not go to the trouble of
speaking in an undertone.
"Old friends of Mr. Thorpe's," said Anne. "Washington Square people. More
tea, Ludwig. How well you are looking, Mrs. Wintermill. So good of you to
come."
"We wanted to be among the first—if not the very first—to welcome you
home, Jane. Percy said to me this morning before he left for the office:
'Mother, you must run in and see Jane Tresslyn to-day.' Ahem! Dear me, I
seem to have got into the habit of dropping things every time I move.
Thanks, dear. Ahem! As I was saying, I said to Percy this morning: 'I must
run in and see Jane Tresslyn to-day.' And Percy said that he would meet me
here and go on to the—Do you remember the Fenns? The Rumsey Fenns?"
"Oh, yes. I've been away only a year, you know, Mrs. Wintermill."
"It seems ages. Well, the Fenns are having something or other for a French
woman,—or a man, I'm not quite sure,—who is trying to introduce a new
tuberculosis serum over here. I shouldn't be the least bit surprised to
see it publicly injected into Mr. Fenn, who, I am told, has everything his
wife wants him to have. My daughter was saying only a day or two ago that
Rumsey Fenn,—we don't know them very well, of course,—naturally, we
wouldn't, you know—er—what was I saying? Ah, yes; Percy declared that the
city would be something like itself once more, now that you've come home,
Jennie. I beg your pardon;—which is it that you prefer? I've quite
forgotten. Jennie or Jane?"
"It doesn't in the least matter, Mrs. Wintermill," said Anne amiably.
"There isn't much choice."
"How is your mother?"
"Quite well, thank you. And how is Mr. Wintermill?"
"As I was saying, Mrs. Fenn dances beautifully. Percy,—he's really quite
silly about dancing,—Percy says she's the best he knows. I do not pretend
to dance all of the new ones myself, but—Did you inquire about Mr.
Wintermill? He's doing it, too, as they say in the song. By the way, I
should have asked before: how is your mother? I haven't seen her in weeks.
Good heavens!" The good lady actually turned pale. "It was your husband
who died, wasn't it? Not your—but, of course, _not_. What a relief. You
say she's well?"
"You barely missed her. She was here this afternoon."
"So sorry. It _is_ good to have you with us again, Kate. How pretty you
are. Do you like the Ritz?"
A bell-boy delivered a huge basket of roses at the door at this juncture.
Mrs. Wintermill eyed them sharply as Ludwig paused for instructions. Anne
languidly picked up the detached envelope and looked at the card it
contained.
"Put it on the piano, Ludwig," she said. "They are from Eddie Townshield,"
she announced, kindly relieving her visitor's curiosity.
"Really," said Mrs. Wintermill. She sent a very searching glance around
the room once more. This time she was not looking for Percy, but for
Percy's tribute. She was annoyed with Percy. What did he mean by not
sending flowers to Anne Tresslyn? In her anger she got the name right.
"Orchids are Percy's favourites, Anne. He never sends anything but
orchids. He—"
"He sent me some gorgeous orchids this morning," said Anne.
Mrs. Wintermill looked again, even squinting her eyes. "I suppose they
_aren't_ very hardy at this time of the year. I've noticed they perish—"
"Oh, these were exceedingly robust," interrupted Anne. "They'll live for
days." Her visitor gave it up, sinking back with a faint sigh. "I've had
millions of roses and orchids and violets since I landed. Every one has
been so nice."
Mrs. Wintermill sat up a little straighter in her chair. "New York men are
rather punctilious about such things," she ventured. It was an inquiry.
"Captain Poindexter, Dickie Fowless, Herb. Vandervelt,—oh, I can't
remember all of them. The room looked like Thorley's this morning."
Mrs. Wintermill could not stand it any longer. "What have you done with
them, my dear?"
Anne enjoyed being veracious. "I took a whole truckload up to my sister-
in-law. She's going to have a baby."
Her visitor stiffened. "I was not aware that you had a sister-in-law. Mr.
Thorpe was especially free from relatives."
"Oh, this is George's wife. Dear little Lutie Carnahan, don't you know?
She's adorable."
"Oh!" oozed from the other's lips. "I—I think I do recall the fact that
George was married while in college. It is very nice of you to share your
flowers with her. I loathed them, however, when Percy and Elaine were
coming. It must be after five, isn't it?"
"Two minutes after," said Anne.
"I thought so. I wonder what has become of—Oh, by the way, Jane, Percy was
saying the other day that Eddie Townshield has really been thrown over by
that silly little Egburt girl. He was frightfully gone on her, you know.
You wouldn't know her. She came out after you went into retirement. That's
rather good, isn't it? Retirement! I must tell that to Percy. He thinks I
haven't a grain of humour, my dear. It bores him, I fancy, because he is
so witty himself. And heaven knows he doesn't get it from his father. That
reminds me, have you heard that Captain Poindexter is about to be
dismissed from the army on account of that affair with Mrs. Coles last
winter? The government is very strict about—Ah, perhaps that is Percy
now."
But it was not Percy,—only a boy with a telegram.
"Will you pardon me?" said Anne, and tore open the envelope. "Why, it's
from Percy."
"From—dear me, what is it, Anne? Has anything happened—"
"Just a word to say that he will be fifteen or twenty minutes late," said
Anne drily.
"He is the most thoughtful boy in—But as I was saying, Herbie Vandervelt's
affair with Anita Coles was the talk of the town last winter. Every one
says that he will not marry her even though Coles divorces her. How I hate
that in men. They are not all that sort, thank God. I suppose the business
in connection with the estate has been settled, hasn't it? As I recall it,
the will was a very simple one, aside from that ridiculous provision that
shocked every one so much. I think you made a great mistake in not
contesting it, Annie. Percy says that it wouldn't have stood in any court.
By the way, have you seen Braden Thorpe?" She eyed her hostess rather
narrowly.
"No," was the reply. "It hasn't been necessary, you know. Mr. Dodge
attended to everything. My duties as executrix were trifling. My report,
or whatever you call it, was ready months ago."
"And all that money? I mean, the money that went to Braden. What of that?"
"It did not go to Braden, Mrs. Wintermill," said Anne levelly. "It is in
trust."
Mrs. Wintermill smiled. "Oh, nothing will come of that," she said. "Percy
says that you could bet your boots that Braden would have contested if
things had been the other way round."
"I'm sure I don't know," said Anne briefly.
"I hear that he is hanging on in spite of what the world says about him,
trying to get a practice. Percy sees him quite frequently. He's really
sorry for him. When Percy likes a person nothing in the world can turn him
against—why, he would lend him money as long as his own lasted. He—"
"Has Braden borrowed money from Percy?" demanded Anne quickly.
"I did not say that he had, my dear," said the other reprovingly. "I
merely said that he would lend it to him in any amount if he asked for it.
Of course, Braden would probably go to Simmy Dodge in case of—they are
almost inseparable, you know. Simmy has been quite a brick, sticking to
him like this. My dear,"—leaning a little closer and lowering her voice on
Ludwig's account,—"do you know that the poor fellow didn't have a patient
for nearly six months? People wouldn't go near him. I hear that he has
been doing better of late. I think it was Percy who said that he had
operated successfully on a man who had gall stones. Oh, yes, I quite
forgot that Percy says he has twenty-five thousand dollars a year as wages
for acting as trustee. I fancy he doesn't hesitate to use it to the best
advantage. As long as he has that, I dare say he will not starve or go
naked."
Receiving no response from Anne, she took courage and playfully shook her
finger at the young woman. "Wasn't there some ridiculous talk of an
adolescent engagement a few years ago? How queer nature is! I can't
imagine you even being interested in him. So soggy and emotionless, and
you so full of life and verve and—Still they say he is completely wrapped
up in his profession, such as it is. I've always said that a daughter of
mine should never marry a doctor. As a matter of fact, a doctor never
should marry. No woman should be subjected to the life that a doctor's
wife has to lead. In the first place, if he is any good at all in his
profession, he can't afford to give her any time or thought, and then
there is always the danger one runs from women patients. You never could
be quite sure that everything was all right, don't you know. Besides, I've
always had a horror of the infectious diseases they may be carrying around
in their—why, think of small-pox and diphtheria and scarlet fever! Those
diseases—"
"My dear Mrs. Wintermill," interrupted Anne, with a smile, "I am not
thinking of marrying a doctor."
"Of course you are not," said Mrs. Wintermill promptly. "I wasn't thinking
of that. I—"
"Besides, there is a lot of difference between a surgeon and a regular
practitioner. Surgeons do not treat small-pox and that sort of thing. You
couldn't object to a surgeon, could you?" She spoke very sweetly and
without a trace of ridicule in her manner.
"I have a horror of surgeons," said the other, catching at her purse as it
once more started to slip from her capacious lap. She got it in time.
"Blood on their hands every time they earn a fee. No, thank you. I am not
a sanguinary person."
All of which leads up to the belated announcement that Mrs. Wintermill was
extremely desirous of having the beautiful and wealthy widow of Templeton
Thorpe for a daughter-in-law.
"I suppose you know that James,—but naturally you wouldn't know, having
just landed, my dear Jane. You haven't seen Braden Thorpe, so it isn't
likely that you could have heard. I fancy he isn't saying much about it,
in any event. The world is too eager to rake up things against him in view
of his extraordinary ideas on—"
"You were speaking of James, but _what_ James, Mrs. Wintermill?"
interrupted Anne, sensing.
Mrs. Wintermill lowered her voice. "Inasmuch as you are rather closely
related to Braden by marriage, you will be interested to know that he is
to perform a very serious operation upon James Marraville." There was no
mistaking the awe in her voice.
"The banker?"
"The great James Marraville," said Mrs. Wintermill, suddenly passing her
handkerchief over her brow. "He is said to be in a hopeless condition,"
she added, pronouncing the words slowly.
"I—I had not heard of it, Mrs. Wintermill," murmured Anne, going cold to
the very marrow.
"Every one has given him up. It is terrible. A few days ago he sent for
Braden Thorpe and—well, it was announced in the papers that there will be
an operation to-morrow or the next day. Of course, he cannot survive it.
That is admitted by every one. Mr. Wintermill went over to see him last
night. He was really shocked to find Mr. Marraville quite cheerful
and—contented. I fancy you know what that means."
"And Braden is going to operate?" said Anne slowly.
"No one else will undertake it, of course," said the other, something like
a triumphant note in her voice.
"What a wonderful thing it would be for Braden if he were to succeed,"
cried Anne, battling against her own sickening conviction. "Think what it
would mean if he were to save the life of a man so important as James
Marraville,—one of the most talked-of men in the country. It would—"
"But he will not save the man's life," said Mrs. Wintermill significantly.
"I do not believe that Marraville himself expects that." She hesitated for
an instant. "It is really dreadful that Braden should have achieved so
much notoriety on account of—I _beg_ your pardon!"
Anne had arisen and was standing over her visitor in an attitude at once
menacing and theatric. The old lady blinked and caught her breath.
"If you are trying to make me believe, Mrs. Wintermill, that Braden would
consent to—But, why should I insult him by attempting to defend him when
no defence is necessary? I know him well enough to say that he would not
operate on James Marraville for all the money in the world unless he
believed that there was a chance to pull him through." She spoke rapidly
and rather too intensely for Mrs. Wintermill's peace of mind.
"That is just what Percy says," stammered the older woman hastily. "He
believes in Braden. He says it's all tommyrot about Marraville paying him
to put him out of his misery. My dear, I don't believe there is a more
loyal creature on earth than Percy Wintermill. He—"
Percy was announced at that instant. He came quickly into the room and,
failing utterly to see his mother, went up to Anne and inquired what the
deuce had happened to prevent her coming to luncheon, and why she didn't
have the grace to let him know, and what did she take him for, anyway.
"Elaine and I stood around over there for an hour,—an hour, do you get
that?—biting everything but food, and—"
"I'm awfully sorry, Percy," said Anne calmly. "I wouldn't offend Elaine
for the world. She's—"
"Elaine? What about me? Elaine took it as a joke, confound her,—but I
didn't. Now see here, Anne, old girl, you know I'm not in the habit of
being—"
"Here is your mother, Percy," interrupted Anne coldly.
"Hello! You still waiting for me, mother? I say, what do you think Anne's
been doing to your angel child? Forgetting that he's on earth, that's all.
Now, where were you, Anne, and what's the racket? I'm not in the habit of
being—"
"I forgot all about it, Percy," confessed Anne deliberately. She was
conscious of a sadly unfeminine longing to see just how Percy's nose
_could_ look under certain conditions. "I couldn't say that to you over
the phone, however,—could I?"
"Anne's sister-in-law is expecting a baby," put in Mrs. Wintermill
fatuously. This would never do! Percy ought to know better than to say
such things to Anne. What on earth had got into him? Except for the
foregoing effort, however, she was quite speechless.
"What's that got to do with it?" demanded Percy, chucking his gloves
toward the piano. He faced Anne once more, prepared to insist on full
satisfaction. The look in her eyes, however, caused him to refrain from
pursuing his tactics. He smiled in a sickly fashion and said, after a
moment devoted to reconstruction: "But, never mind, Anne; I was only
having a little fun bullying you. That's a man's privilege, don't you
know. We'll try it again to-morrow, if you say so."
"I have an engagement," said Anne briefly. The next instant she smiled.
"Next week perhaps, if you will allow me the privilege of forgetting
again."
"Oh, I say!" said Percy, blinking his eyes. How was he to take that sort
of talk? He didn't know. And for fear that he might say the wrong thing if
he attempted to respond to her humour, he turned to his mother and
remarked: "Don't wait for me, mother. Run along, do. I'm going to stop for
a chat with Anne."
As Mrs. Wintermill went out she met Simmy Dodge in the hall.
"Would you mind, Simmy dear, coming down to the automobile with me?" she
said quickly. "I—I think I feel a bit faint."
"I'll drive home with you, if you like," said the good Simmy,
solicitously.