For a moment Mrs. De Peyster was again rigid. Then slowly she nodded.
The spirit of the masquerade seized upon Mary. "Oh, mother dear,—what a comfort to have you!" she cried with mischievous glee; and arms wide as if for a daughterly embrace she swept toward Mrs. De Peyster.
Mrs. De Peyster shriveled back. She stopped living. In another moment—
But the Reverend Mr. Pyecroft, alias Archibald Simpson, alias Thomas Preston, alias God knows what else, stepped quickly between her and the on-coming Mary, and with an air of brotherly concern held out an intercepting hand.
"No excitement, please. The doctor's orders."
"Is it anything serious?" Mary asked anxiously.
"We hope not," in a grave voice. "It is chiefly nervous exhaustion due to a period of worry over a trying domestic situation."
"That's too bad!" Very genuine sympathy was in Mary's soft contralto. "But if she's unwell, she ought to have more air. Why don't you draw up that heavy veil?"
"S-s-h! Not so loud, I beg you. If she heard you speak of her veil, it would pain her greatly. You see," Mr. Pyecroft unhesitatingly went on in a low, compassionate tone, "our sister, while trying to light a gasoline stove—It was a gasoline stove, was it not, Matilda?"
"Ah—er—ye-yes," corroborated Matilda.