He looked at her curiously. "You don't mean to say that you still think that Wick cares a button about Dorothy Perkins or anyone else except Grisel?"
"But if he doesn't—oh, how dreadful it all is—why is he engaged to her?"
"That I don't know. I shall know by this time to-morrow." He looked at his watch. "It is only eleven now. I wonder," he went on slowly, "if I could get him on the telephone? May as well get it over at once."
She told him the number, and acting on certain instructions of his went to Grisel's room while he was telephoning. The girl was sitting by the window still dressed, but with her hair plaited in a long tail down her back, which gave her an odd effect of being a child dressed in some one else's clothes. "My head was so bad," she explained. "I have been brushing my hair."
"Good, I am glad you have not gone to bed, darling, for John is still here and wants to see you in a little while."
"Oh, mother, it's so late."
Mrs. Walbridge kissed her smooth, black, old-fashioned, silky hair. "I know, dear, but he has had an important telegram, and wishes to speak to you about it. Oh, look, it has stopped raining, and the moon is coming out!"
She stood for a while looking out into the delicate gleams of the rain-soaked garden, and then said gently:
"Grisel, darling, have you seen Miss Perkins yet?"