Catherine, her first indignation somewhat abated, and now vastly relieved at the realization that she indeed was free from her loveless and long-since irksome alliance with Waldron, calmly enough returned to the club-house.  Head well up, and eyes defiant, she walked up the broad steps and into the office.  Little cared she whether the piazza gossips—­The Hammer and Anvil Club, in local slang—­divined the quarrel or not.  The girl felt herself immeasurably indifferent to such pettinesses as prying small talk and innuendo.  Let people know, or not, as might be, she cared not a whit.  Her business was her own.  No wagging of tongues could one hair’s breadth disturb that splendid calm of hers.

The clerk, behind the desk, smiled and nodded at her approach.

“Please have my car brought round to the porte-cochere, at once?” she asked.  “And tell Herrick to be sure there’s plenty of gas for a long run.  I’m going through to New York.”

“So soon?” queried the clerk.  “I’m sure your father will be disappointed, Miss Flint.  He’s just wired that he’s coming out tomorrow, to spend Sunday here.  He particularly asks to have you remain.  See here?”

He handed her a telegram.  She glanced it over, then crumpled it and tossed it into the office fire-place.

“I’m sorry,” she answered.  “But I can’t stay.  I must get back, to-night.  I’ll telegraph father not to come.  A blank, please?”

The clerk handed her one.  She pondered a second, then wrote: 

     Dear Father:  A change of plans makes me return home at once. 
     Please wait and see me there.  I’ve something important to talk over
     with you.

     Affectionately,

     Kate.

Ordinarily people try to squeeze their message to ten words, and count and prune and count again; but not so, Catherine.  For her, a telegram had never contained any space limit.  It meant less to her than a post-card to you or me.  Not that the girl was consciously extravagant.  No, had you asked her, she would have claimed rigid economy—­she rarely, for instance, paid more than a hundred dollars for a morning gown, or more than a thousand for a ball-dress.  It was simply that the idea of counting words had never yet occurred to her.  And so now, she complacently handed this verbose message to the clerk, who—­thoroughly well-trained—­understood it was to be charged on her father’s perfectly staggering monthly bill.

“Very well, Miss Flint,” said he.  “I’ll send this at once.  And your car will be ready for you in ten minutes—­or five, if you like?”

“Ten will do, thank you,” she answered.  Then she crossed to the elevator and went up to her own suite of rooms on the second floor, for her motor-coat and veils.

“Free, thank heaven!” she breathed, with infinite relief, as she stood before the tall mirror, adjusting these for the long trip.  “Free from that man forever.  What a narrow escape!  If things hadn’t happened just as they did, and if I hadn’t had that precious insight into Wally’s character—­good Lord!—­catastrophe!  Oh, I haven’t been so happy since I—­since—­why, I’ve never been so happy in all my life!