Certainly, whether she derived it from her father's ancestry or her mother's solid worth, Tilly Welwyn was composed of good fibre. With flushed cheeks and unnaturally bright eyes she turned to the mirror over the drawing-room mantelpiece and began to take off her hat.
"It's a mystery to me," ruminated the puzzled Mrs. Welwyn, "why that creature went out. He must have known we would n't let him in again."
"Perhaps Dicky kicked him out," suggested that small hero-worshipper, Amelia, with relish.
Tilly turned sharply.
"Who?" she asked. A hatpin tinkled into the fender.
Little 'Melia bit her lip, and turned scarlet.
"Mr. Dick, dearie," said Mrs. Welwyn, coming to the rescue. "He looked in this morning."
"What for?" asked Tilly, groping for the hatpin.
"I don't know. I did n't see him," admitted her mother reluctantly.
"I do," said 'Melia, having decided to get things over at once. "He left a letter for you, Sis."