“Oh, tuck me in anywhere, just so there's a bath handy.”
“All the bedrooms have baths,” said Mrs. Sequin absently, with her eye on the befuddled butler who was trying to uncork a bottle with a screwdriver, “Let Flathers—I mean Benson—do that, John, and you take these bags. So sorry I can't go up with you myself, Don, but the cotillion is just beginning, and I have to see to the favors.”
“That's right, don't bother about me, I'll get into some decent togs and be down again in a little while.”
Mrs. Sequin paused with her hand on the banister, then she leaned forward solicitously:
“I wouldn't take the trouble to dress and come down again, Don. It's late and you must be dead tired. You go to bed. I'll understand.”
Donald, standing a few steps above her, shot a questioning glance at her, then he, too, understood.
“Oh, all right,” he said, biting his lip; “I believe I won't come down. You might send Marge up, after the people leave, just to say 'Hello.'”
“Of course, we'll both be up. Nothing could hold her if she knew you were here. But it is better that nobody should know. I was careful not to mention your name before the servants. You can have a nice little visit with us, and get away again without any one being the wiser. It is so lovely you got here in time for Christmas! Good night.” She came up two steps and presented her other cheek for a kiss.
{Illustration: Mrs. Sequin paused with her hand on the bannister.}
The delinquent John, meanwhile, was performing acrobatic feats with the bags, getting them so mixed up with his own legs and the stair steps that Donald snatched them from him, and, eliciting a vague direction concerning the room he was to occupy, went up to find it alone.