"Dear, dear!" Jennie threw over her shoulder, as she passed into her own room. "We've got terribly modest all of a sudden, haven't we?"
But weeks later she recalled this lame excuse.
[CHAPTER XV]
During the next few days, Wray snapped his fingers twice, and on each occasion Jennie ran to him like a dog, as she had foreseen she would.
The first time was in response to a telegram. The telegram said, simply:
Studio Thursday, 3 P.M.
There was no signature, but Jennie knew what it meant. By one o'clock she was dressing feverishly; by two, she had said good-by to her mother and was on her way. She was not thinking of her twenty-five thousand dollars now, or of any offering up of herself. Her one objective was to drive that woman from the Byzantine chair so that Hubert shouldn't look at her again.
But she had not got out of Indiana Avenue on her way to the trolley car when something happened which had never happened in her life before. She received another telegram, the second in one day. The messenger boy, who was a neighbor's son, had hailed her from across the street.
"Hello, Jennie! Are you Miss Jane Scarborough Follett? That's a name and a half, ain't it?"
Her first thought was that Hubert was wiring to put her off because he wanted the other woman, after all. Her second, that he had already addressed her as "Miss Jennie Follett," and she doubted if he knew her full baptismal name. Only in one connection had it been used of late, and that recollection made her tremble.