"Good gracious! Lieutenant-Governor, is that you?"
Repeated and earnest endeavor on Barclay's part had never dissuaded her from this form of address.
"What is the use of having such a title, if one can't call you by it?" she would say, when he remonstrated. "Do you suppose that, if Natalie were engaged to a prince, I should be going around, calling him Tom, Dick, or Harry, instead of 'Your Royal Highness'? You ought to be proud of your title. I am!"
"But, Mrs. Rathbawne"—
"Now, please not, Lieutenant-Governor, please not! I like it best that way."
The north wind was attentive and amenable to the voice of persuasion, in comparison with Josephine Rathbawne.
"Of course you know the strike is on!" she continued now, without waiting for an assurance from Barclay that he was indeed none other than himself. "Isn't it awful? I expect to hear the roar of the mob at any moment! Come into the drawing-room. Natalie was there, only half an hour ago."
And she swept through the doorway, Barclay following.
"Natalie," she began, "here's the Lieu—why, Dorothy! I took you for Natalie. And—er—oh! Why, Mr.—er—how de do? I didn't see you at first. Oh, do turn on the switch, my dear. The place is as black as pitch."
The electric light, flooding the room, revealed young Nisbet, one vast, consuming blush, and Dorothy, with a dangerous light in her eyes, and her lips tightly compressed. It was plain that Mrs. Rathbawne had fallen foul of Dan Cupid's machinery once more!