“Enoch,” she said breathlessly, “there’s a moty car comin’ up the drive! Such a swell turnout, too. Who can it be?”
Mr. Pyle hurriedly set down his cup, tiptoed to the window, and cautiously peered out from behind the curtain. By that time the car had pulled up outside the front door, and an aristocratic-looking, fashionably dressed lady of middle age was in the act of stepping out.
“Marier,” gasped Mr. Pyle, staggering back from the window, “as sure as you live, it’s—it’s Mrs. Brook-White comin’ to call on us.”
“And me in my second-best dress!” groaned Mrs. Pyle agitatedly. “Ain’t that jest my luck! Put your tie straight, Enoch! Pull down your vest! And wipe that butter off your chin!”
In frantic haste the worthy couple strove to make themselves more presentable. A few moments of nerve-racking suspense followed, then the liveried footman flung open the door and announced:
“Mrs. Brook-White!”
Elaine—for it was she, of course—sailed into the room with an air that a queen might have envied. Her disguise was perfect, and her acting superb.
“My dear Mrs. Pyle!” she gushed, tripping forward and holding out her hand to that agitated woman, “I know what you must have been thinking of me for not having called upon you before. I’ve really wanted so much to, you know, ever since you came here, but you see, my time is so fully occupied—and this is your husband, is it? Charmed to make your acquaintance, Mr. Pyle! What a delightful place you have here. I hope now that I’ve made the plunge, that I shall be able to come often—if you’ll let me.”
“As often as you like, ma’am,” said Mr. Pyle, who hardly knew whether he was standing on his head or his heels. “We’ll be tickled to death to have you! But won’t you sit down?”
“And won’t you have a cup of tea?” asked Mrs. Pyle, when Elaine had seated herself.