"Mees Maxwell," he announced at the door of the library, and leaving the lady to explain herself, discreetly vanished.
Schuyler was in the act of selecting from his bookshelves a few favourite volumes to take with him from this home of peace, back to the hurly-burly. Unable to believe his ears, he turned quickly, and then for half a second could not believe his eyes. Disarmed, his face told Peter a secret she had long wished to know with certainty. Therefore, though he spoke almost brusquely, and frowned at her instead of smiling, she was so happy that she could have sung for joy. "If I don't fix it all up to-day, my name isn't Molly Maxwell," she informed her inner self, in the quaint, practical way that Mary had loved.
"Peter—it can't be you!" Schuyler exclaimed.
"It's all that's left of me, after missing the luxe and travelling for about seventeen years in any sort of old train I could get," she replied with elaborate nonchalance. "Kindly don't stare as if I were Banquo's ghost or something. I'm so tired and dusty and desperately hungry that if you don't grin at once I shall dissolve in tears."
She held out both hands, and Jim, aching to seize her in his arms and kiss her breath away, took the extended hands as if they had been marked "dangerous."
"Where's your father?" was his first question.
"In New York, as far as I know."
"Great Scott! you haven't come here from Scotland alone?"
"I thought I had, but if you say I haven't, perhaps I've been attended by spirit chaperons."
"My—dear girl, what has possessed you? You are looking impish. What have you come for?"