"Nonsense, little woman. Don't you worry about me—I tell you there is no need. You're out of it now.—I admit I was mightily concerned for you; that is why I didn't favor Gladys' and your scheme to placate him: because it involved you. He could have made it most unpleasant—as he did—and as he didn't, thanks to Mrs. Postlewaite."
He put her in her car, with the courteous deference he always had for a woman—were she but a beggar who accosted him on the street—and which was always just a shade more courteous and more deferential to her.
"When shall I see you again?" he asked, as he bent over her hand.
"This evening, if you wish!" she smiled, with just the faintest pressure of her fingers.
"You are very good," he murmured. "I most assuredly do wish."
"I'll expect you then—at nine, Montague. I want to—talk over—matters—Amherst, you know."
"At nine!" he answered, and the car rolled away.
Pendleton went in through the Club-house, and out again on the east piazza where Miss Chamberlain was playing Auction. She saw him coming and motioned to a chair beside her. Mrs. Postlewaite was a little way off, holding her usual court. Gladys glanced toward her and smiled.
"We all know it, Montague," she said. "Everyone in the Club-house and on the links knows it—and it has been telephoned to town, I dare say: Mrs. Postlewaite asked Stephanie to have tea with her here. It's the sensation of the—year."
"And for a sensation mighty satisfactory," Pendleton returned.