"I will tell her. She thought, perhaps—but no. She has written, and I will not forestall her note. I shall have the pleasure of meeting you to-morrow night at Mr. Gunning's party. Good-night."
He bowed. She extended her hand. "Do not forget my message." Then, when he had left the box, she said to her hostess, "What a charming face that young man has! So frank, and manly, and straightforward. Who is he?"
"His mother's only son. The father died two years ago, and left great mining operations in a state that required very active and constant supervision. This boy—as he was then—undertook it all, worked like a slave, and showed great cleverness, great tact and judgment, I am told, in dealing with the men, who all adore him, I hear. He lives there, in Colorado, almost entirely, with his mother and a young sister, and resists all temptations to come to New York, unless business brings him. It is most extraordinary."
"It is admirable. And his mother—is she as nice as he?"
"I don't know her. She never goes into society here. She devotes herself to the education of her daughter, I believe, and to making a comfortable home for her son."
But the third act had now begun, and with it Mr. Gunning's fluid vacuity, which played with a mild spray down Miss Ballinger's back for the remainder of the evening.
CHAPTER VII
This was what the post brought Grace the next morning:
"My dear Miss Ballinger,[1]—I hope to call on you to-morrow; but I wish first to explain who I am. My husband was well acquainted with Sir Henry Ballinger, and he was our guest while in the United States. I am now a widow, living almost entirely in Colorado with my son, though I have a house here. I do not go into New York society, and fear I can be of little use to you during my short stay, but if you and your brother have a spare evening and would dine quietly with me I would try and get one or two pleasant friends to meet you. Later on, if you are going West, it would give me real pleasure to offer you and Sir Mordaunt such hospitality as we can in our wild home in the Rocky Mountains. Should you not be at home to-morrow, perhaps you will kindly write and say if I am fortunate enough to find you both disengaged any evening. All are the same to me.
Yours sincerely,