“You’ve heard me speak of my sister, Oliver,” said Lansing, resting his elbows on the wheel. “Well, here she is. Meet Mr. Baxter, Sylvia, as we say out here. Mrs. Flame, Oliver. You needn’t be afraid of her, old man. She’s quite flameless. Got rid of him last month in Paris. Come a little closer.”
“Don’t be silly, Paul,” scolded Mrs. Flame. “Mr. Baxter may have a perfect horror of divorced women.”
“I have,” said Oliver gallantly. “I shudder every time I see one. If I hear about ’em in time, I shut my eyes so that I can’t see them. But when I’m taken by surprise like this, I stare rudely, my knees quake and I begin to pray for help. It’s queer I never feel that way about divorced men. I don’t have the slightest fear of them, no matter how big and strong and ferocious they may be. Strange, isn’t it?”
“Very,” said she, still smiling down into his eyes. “I must say, however, I don’t think you are staring rudely.”
“It’s generally conceded that he stares very handsomely,” said Lansing. “But, hop in, Oliver. I’ve been sent to fetch you over to Mr. Sage’s. He had a cablegram early this morning and sort of went to pieces. Jane sent for me. He’s all right now, but Jane says he wants to see you. She telephoned while I was there, but you were not at home.”
“A cablegram? His wife—is she dead?”
“I should say not. She’s sailing for the United States to-morrow and is coming here to live!”
“Good God!” burst involuntarily from Oliver’s lips.
“It’s knocked the old boy silly,” was Lansing’s brief and professional explanation. “Climb in here beside Sylvia—plenty of room if we squeeze. Get your leg over a little, Sylvia. That’s all right. Shall we stick to this road, Oliver, or go back to the—”
“It gets better a little farther on,” said Oliver, dazed. “All the hauling has been at this end. My Lord! No wonder he’s knocked out. Coming here to live? Why—why, he hasn’t seen her since Jane was a baby. What’s the matter with her? Sick?”