"I am coming in, Watson. Open the box of flowers for Miss Castleton. Is there a fire in the library?"
"Yes, Mrs. Wrandall."
"Mr. Leslie will be out on Saturday. Tell Mrs. Conkling."
"The evening train, ma'am?"
"No. The eleven-thirty. He will be here for luncheon."
When Hetty hurried into the library a few minutes later, her manner was that of one considerably disturbed by something that has transpired almost on the moment. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were reflectors of a no uncertain distress of mind. Mrs. Wrandall was standing before the fireplace, an exquisite figure in the slinky black evening gown which she affected in these days. Her perfectly modelled neck and shoulders gleamed like pink marble in the reflected glow of the burning logs. She wore no jewellery, but there was a single white rose in her dark hair, where it had been placed by the whimsical Hetty an hour earlier as they left the dinner table.
"He is coming out on the eleven-thirty, Sara," said the girl nervously, "unless you will send the motor in for him. The body of his car is being changed and it's in the shop. He must have been jesting when he said he would pay for the petrol—I should have said gasoline."
Sara laughed. "You will know him better, my dear," she said. "Leslie is very light-hearted."
"He suggested bringing a friend," went on Hetty hurriedly. "A Mr. Booth, the portrait painter."
"I met him in Italy. He is charming. You will like HIM, too, Hetty." The emphasis did not escape notice.