And now Nina was calling her from the hall below; and she answered gaily and, hiding the letter in her long glove, came down the stairs.

“I’ll tell you all about the letter in the train,” she said; “he is perfectly well, and evidently quite happy; and Nina—­”

“What, dear?”

“I want to send him a telegram.  May I?”

“A dozen, if you wish,” said Mrs. Gerard, “only, if you don’t climb into that vehicle, we’ll miss the train.”

So on the way to Wyossette station Eileen sat very still, gloved hands folded in her lap, composing her telegram to Selwyn.  And, once in the station, having it by heart already, she wrote it rapidly: 

     “Nina and I are on our way to the Berkshires for a week. 
     House-party at the Craigs’.  We stay overnight in town.  E.E.”

But the telegram went to his club, and waited for him there; and meanwhile another telegram arrived at his lodgings, signed by a trained nurse; and while Miss Erroll, in the big, dismantled house, lay in a holland-covered armchair, waiting for him, while Nina and Austin, reading their evening papers, exchanged significant glances from time to time, the man she awaited sat in the living-room in a little villa at Edgewater.  And a slim young nurse stood beside him, cool and composed in her immaculate uniform, watching the play of light and shadow on a woman who lay asleep on the couch, fresh, young face flushed and upturned, a child’s doll cradled between arm and breast.

* * * * *

“How long has she been asleep?” asked Selwyn under his breath.

“An hour.  She fretted a good deal because you had not come.  This afternoon she said she wished to drive, and I had the phaeton brought around; but when she saw it she changed her mind.  I was rather afraid of an outburst—­they come sometimes from less cause than that—­so I did not urge her to go out.  She played on the piano for a long while, and sang some songs—­those curious native songs she learned in Manila.  It seemed to soothe her; she played with her little trifles quite contentedly for a time, but soon began fretting again, and asking why you had not come.  She had a bad hour later—­she is quite exhausted now.  Could you stay to-night, Captain Selwyn?”

“Y-es, if you think it better. . . .  Wait a moment; I think she has awakened.”

Alixe had turned her head, her lovely eyes wide open.

“Phil!” she cried, “is it you?”

He went forward and took the uplifted hands, smiling down at her.

“Such a horrid dream!” she said pettishly, “about a soft, plump man with ever so many rings on his hands. . . .  Oh, I am glad you came. . . .  Look at this child of mine!” cuddling the staring wax doll closer; “she’s not undressed yet, and it’s long, long after bedtime.  Hand me her night-clothes, Phil.”

The slim young nurse bent and disentangled a bit of lace and cambric from a heap on the floor, offering it to Selwyn.  He laid it in the hand Alixe held out, and she began to undress the doll in her arms, prattling softly all the while: