“You tell Sarah,” Anthony said off the top of his mind, the rest of it obviously engaged with the note,—­“you tell Sarah there’s nothing capitalistic about this.  This is from her Doctor Wollaston’s wife.  Certainly he earns his living if anybody does.”

“Do they want their piano tuned again?” Ben asked.

“They don’t mention it.  They want to know if I’ll come to lunch to-day.  I’m going to telephone to see if the invitation has expired.”

“Good lord!” said Ben, “what have you got to wear?  You can’t go looking like that!” He meant to go into particulars when his brother came back from the telephone.  But by that time he had something of nearer concern to himself to think about.  Anthony found him staring out the window with an expression of the liveliest dismay.

“Oh, look who’s here!” he said.  “Can you beat it?”

Anthony looked and saw a little Ford coupe pulling up to the curb in front of the house; looked more closely at the person at the wheel and blinked.

“Jennie MacArthur!  I thought she was still in New York.  But what’s she doing in that car?”

“Oh, she bought it last fall,” Ben said.  “She’s getting rich.  But can’t you see what it means?  She’s coming around to see Sarah and that’ll give Sarah an excuse for staying home from church.  And that means that I’ll have to go.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Anthony said, catching up his hat.  “I’ll head her off.  Tell mother I’ll be around to-night.”

He intercepted Jennie at the car door, caught both her hands and pressed them tight, pushed her back into her seat as he did so, climbed in and sat down beside her.  “I’m supposed to be saving Ben from the horrible fate of getting dragged to church when it’s really Sarah’s Sunday,” he said.  “If you’ll just drive me around the corner, I’ll explain.”

But she prevented him with a little laugh when he would have begun.  “This is good enough for me.  I don’t want any explanation.”

“It’s pretty good,” he agreed.  “Stop a minute now we’re safely around the corner and let me have a look at you.”

She obeyed him, literally, pulling up to the curb again, accorded him the look he wanted and took, meanwhile, one of her own at him.  Neither of them, however, seemed to find just the phrase in which to announce the result of this scrutiny.  She started on again presently and he relaxed against the cushion.  “This is more like being home again than anything that’s happened yet,” he said.  “Are we to have a real visit?”

She was free till lunch she told him, and he, after saying “Well, that’s something,” admitted his own engagement.  “However, that’s the best part of two hours.  The thing is not to waste any of it.”

Naturally enough they wasted a good deal of it.  They talked about the little car they were riding in, how she had learned to drive, why she had bought it; how Mr. Ferris, her boss, had said he wouldn’t be any good for the day after coming down-town in a tight jammed elevated train and how, having tried the new method of transportation she had agreed with him; how it was as easy to run as a typewriter.