“Sometimes and about some things, you do me a great injustice, Major,” answered Phoebe slowly, with a serious look into the keen eyes bent upon hers.  “Of all the ‘glad crowd’, as David calls us, I am the only woman who comes directly in contact with the struggling, working, hand-to-hand fight of life, and I can’t help letting it affect me in my judgment of—­of us.  I can’t forget it when—­when I amuse myself or let David amuse me.  I seem to belong with them and not in the life he would make for me; yet you know I care—­but if you are going to get out that extra edition you must get to work.  I will sit here and get up my one o’clock notes for the imp, and if you need me, tell me so.”

The major bestowed a slow quizzical smile upon her and took up his pen.  For an hour they both wrote rapidly with now a quick question from the major and a concise answer from Phoebe, or a short debate over the wording of one of his sentences or paragraphs.  The editorial minds of the graybeard and the girl were of much the same quality and they had written together for many years.  The major had gone far in the molding of Phoebe’s keen wit.

“Why, here you are, Phoebe,” exclaimed Mrs. Buchanan as she hurried into the room just as Phoebe was finishing some of her last paragraphs, “Caroline and I have been telephoning everywhere for you.  Do come and motor out to the Country Club with us for lunch.  David and Andrew left some partridges there yesterday as they came from hunting on Old Harpeth, to be grilled for us to-day.  You are going out there to play bridge with Mrs. Shelby’s guest from Charleston at three, so please come with us now!”

She was all eagerness and she rested one plump, persuasive little hand on Phoebe’s arm.  To Mrs. Matilda, any time that Phoebe could be persuaded to frolic was one of undimmed joy.

“Now, Mrs. Matilda,” said the major, as he smiled at her with the expression of delight that her presence always called forth even in times of extreme strenuosity, “do leave Phoebe with me—­I’m really a very lorn old man.”

“Why, are you really lonely dear?  Then Caroline and I won’t think of going.  We’ll stay right here to lunch with you.  I will go tell her and you put up your books and papers and we will bring our sewing and chat with you and Phoebe.  It will be lovely.”

“Matilda,” answered the major hastily with real alarm in his eyes, “I insist that you unroll my strings to your apron as far as the Country Club this once.  I capitulate—­no man in the world ever had more attention than I have.  Why, Phoebe knows that—­”

“Indeed, indeed, he really doesn’t want us, Mrs. Matilda.  Let’s leave him to his Immortals.  I will be ready in a half-hour if I can write fast here.  Tell Caroline Darrah to hunt me up a fresh veil and phone Mammy Kitty not to expect me home until—­until midnight.  Now while you dress I will write.”

“Very well,” answered Mrs. Buchanan, “if you are sure you don’t need us, Major,” and with a caress on his rampant lock she hurried away.