Appleton tugged at his mustache and puckered his forehead.
"We might make up a party," he mused. "I'll speak to Ross in the morning."
The little gray-haired woman stepped lightly around the table, and, seating herself on his lap, captured his big fingers in her own.
"How many times must I tell you not to pull your mustache, dear? Now, listen; I have a plan. There will be Mary Sheridan and Ross and Ethel Manton—you know she promised us a visit this fall, and I expect her any day now. A trip into the woods will do her a world of good, poor girl. She has had lots of responsibility thrust upon her since brother Fred died, with young Charlie to look out for, and the care of that big house.
"Mrs. Potter, you know she lives next door to Ethel, writes me that she does not believe the girl is happy—that this St. Ledger, or whatever his name is, that she is reported engaged to, is not the kind of a man for Ethel at all—and, that she hasn't seemed herself for a year—some unhappy love affair—the man was a scamp, or something—so this trip will be just what she needs. Charlie will be with her, of course, and we can invite that young Mr. Holbrooke; you have met him, that nice young man—the VanNesses' nephew.
"We will go away up into the big woods where you men can hunt to your heart's delight; and we women will stay around the camp and do the cooking and smell the woods and chew spruce gum. Oh, Hubert, won't it be just grand?"
Appleton caught something of his wife's enthusiasm.
"It sure will, little girl! But what's he for?"
"What is who for?"
"This Holbrooke person. Where does he come in on this?"