There was no one in the hall, sitting room, den, or upstairs, neither had Effie seen any person enter.  Thinking I heard voices in the direction of father’s office, I went there and through to the library “annex,” where an unexpected picture met my gaze.  Martin Cortright, the precise, in stocking feet, skull cap, and dressing gown, perched on top of the step-ladder, was clutching a book in one hand, within the other he held Miss Lavinia’s slender fingers in greeting, while his face had a curious expression of surprise, pleasure, and a wild desire to regain his slippers that were down on the floor, a combination that made him look extremely foolish as well as “pudgy.”

Up to that moment, Miss Lavinia, who cannot distinguish a face three feet away without her lorgnette, thought she was speaking to father.  Under cover of our mutual hilarity, I led her back to a seat in the study, so that Martin might recover his wits, coat, and slippers at the same time, for Miss Lavinia had stumbled over the latter and sent them coasting in different directions.

Yes, the postmistress was right, Lavinia Dorman had a new bonnet.  Not the customary conservative but monotonous upholstered affair of jet and lace, but a handful of pink roses in a tulle nest, held on by wisps of tulle instead of ribbons.

“Hortense, who has made bonnets for years, said this was more appropriate for the country, and would show dirt less than black,—­and even went so far as to suggest omitting the strings altogether,” she said in rather flurried tones, as a few moments later we went upstairs, and I removed the pins that held the confection in place, and commented upon its prettiness.

* * * * *

Martin Cortright stayed to dinner, and afterward he, Miss Lavinia, father, and Evan sat down to a “real old-fashioned,” serious game of whist!  Of all things, to the fifth wheel, who is out of it, would not be in if she could, cannot learn, and prefers jackstraws to card games of any sort, an evening of serious whist is the most aggravating.  They were too well matched to even enliven matters by squabbling or casting venomous glances at each other.  Evan played with Martin Cortright, whose system he was absorbed in mastering, and he never spoke a word, and barely looked up.  This, too, when he had been away for several days on a business trip.  It was moonlight, and I wanted him to see the new iris that were in bloom along the wild walk, dilate upon the game of leap-frog that the automobile played, and—­well—­there is a great deal to say when Evan has been away that cannot be thought of indoors or be spoken hurriedly in the concise, compact, public terms in which one orders a meal.  Conversation is only in part made of words, its subtilties are largely composed of touch and silence.

I myself, being wholly responsible for the present whist combination, of course could say nothing except to myself and the moon.  What a hoard of personal reminiscences and heart to heart confessions the simpering old thing must have stored away behind her placid countenance.  It is a wonder that no enterprising journal has syndicated her memoirs by wireless telegraphy for the exclusive use of their Sunday issue.