"Mrs. Green," called Vane, "come up and confer with me on a matter of great importance. . . ."
With a wild rush Binks emerged from below as if shot from a catapult—to be followed by Mrs. Green wiping her hands on her apron.
"A most important affair, Mrs. Green," continued Vane, when he had let himself into his rooms, and pacified Binks temporarily with the squeaky indiarubber dog. "Only you can save the situation. . . ."
Mrs. Green intimated by a magnificent gesture that she was fully prepared to save any situation.
"I have visitors for tea, or rather, to be correct—a visitor. A lady to comfort me—or perhaps torment me—as only your sex can." His eyes suddenly rested on Margaret's photo, and he stopped with a frown. Mrs. Green's motherly face beamed with satisfaction. Here was a Romance with a capital R, which was as dear to her kindly heart as a Mary Pickford film.
"I'm sure I hope you'll be very happy, sir," she said.
"So do I, Mrs. Green—though I've a shrewd suspicion, I shall be profoundly miserable." He resolutely turned his back on the photo. "I'm playing a little game this afternoon, most motherly of women. Incidentally it's been played before—but it never loses its charm or—its danger. . . ." He gave a short laugh. "My first card is your tea. Toast, Mrs. Green, covered with butter supplied by your sister in Devonshire. Hot toast in your priceless muffin dish—running over with butter: and wortleberry jam. . . . Can you do this great thing for me?"
Mrs. Green nodded her head. "The butter only came this morning, Mr.
Vane, sir. And I've got three pounds of wortleberry jam left. . . ."
"Three pounds should be enough," said Vane after due deliberation.
"And then I've got a saffron cake," went on the worthy woman. "Fresh made before it was sent on by my sister. . . ."