“There she is,” exclaimed Locker; “she is just going into the library.  Let me go tell her you want her.”

“Not at all,” said Mrs. Easterfield.  “Don’t put yourself into danger of breaking your word by seeing her alone before luncheon.  I’ll go to her.”

Mr. Locker continued his melancholy stroll, and Mrs. Easterfield entered the library.  Olive must not be allowed to go away until the moment arrived which had been awaited with so much interest.

“I am looking for a copy of Tartarin sur les Alps.  I am sure I saw it among these French books,” said Olive, on her knees before a low bookcase.  “Would you believe it, Mr. Du Brant has never read it, and he seems to think so much of education.”

Mrs. Easterfield knew exactly where the book was, but she preferred to allow Olive to occupy herself in looking for it, while she kept her eyes on the hall.

“Wait a moment, Olive,” said she; “a visitor has just arrived, and I want to make him acquainted with you.”

Olive rose with a book in her hand, and Mrs. Easterfield presented Mr. Hemphill to Miss Asher.  As she did so, Mrs. Easterfield kept her eyes steadily fixed upon the young lady’s face.  With a pleasant smile Olive returned Mr. Hemphill’s bow.  She was generally glad to make new acquaintances.

“Mr. Hemphill is one of my husband’s business associates,” said Mrs. Easterfield, still with her eyes on Olive.  “He has just come from him.”

“Did he send us this fine day by you?” said Olive.  “If so, we are greatly obliged to him.”

The young man answered that, although he had not brought the day, he was delighted that he had come in company with it.

“What atrocious commonplaces!” thought Mrs. Easterfield.  “The girl does not know him from Adam!”

Here was a disappointment; the thrill, the pallor, the involuntary start, were totally absent; and the first act of the little play was a failure.  But Mrs. Easterfield hoped for better things when the curtain rose again.  She conducted Mr. Hemphill to the Foxes and let Olive go away with her book; and, as soon as she had the opportunity, she read the letter from her husband.

“With this I send you Mr. Hemphill,” he wrote.  “I don’t know what you want to do with him, but you must take good care of him.  He is a most valuable secretary, and an estimable young man.  As soon as you have done with him please send him back.”

“I am glad he is estimable,” said Mrs. Easterfield to herself.  “That will make the matter more satisfactory to Tom when I explain it to him.”

When Dick Lancaster, properly booted and wearing a felt hat, returned the borrowed horse, he was met by Mr. Locker, who had been wandering about the front of the house, and when he had dismounted Dick was somewhat surprised by the hearty handshake he received.

“I am sorry to have to tell you,” said the poet, “that there is another one.”