“Don’t you quite dare to look at her?” questioned the self-appointed lady’s maid, merrily, as she led her charge to stand in front of a long mirror, set in a door.

“Hardly.”  Miss Mathewson raised eyes grown suddenly shy to view her own image in the glass, gave her back a picture such as she had never dreamed could be made by herself, under any conditions whatever.  Over her shoulder her employer’s wife smiled at her.

“She looks very charming, to me, however she looks to you.  But I won’t force her to stare long at such a stranger.  It might make it difficult for her to forget the stranger afterward, which is what I want her to do.”

Ellen ran away to make herself ready once more, and returning put her arm about her guest’s waist, in the friendly way of her own which came still more naturally now that the uniform was gone.  Together the two descended the stairs to the living-room, there to await the arrival of Burns and his friend.

This took place about three quarters of an hour after it was to be expected, as Red Pepper’s arrivals usually did, whether accompanied or not by invited guests.  The two came in laughing together over some reminiscence, and Ellen recognized the tall, distinguished figure she well remembered, with the clean-cut features, the fine eyes rather deep set under heavy brows, the firm yet sensitive mouth.  Yet, after a moment, as Dr. John Leaver stood talking with her, she observed a careworn look, a dimming of the fresh, clear colour she had noted on former meetings; altogether in his whole aspect she found more than a suggestion of undue fatigue, and when the smile ceased to light his face, even of sadness quite unwonted.

While he was in his room before dinner, she held a hasty consultation with her husband, as he dressed with the speed of which he was master through long practice.

“Dr. Leaver can’t be quite well, Red,—­to look like that?”

“I should say not.  I haven’t asked him a question and he hasn’t said a word, but it shows all over him.  He’s not my old friend Jack Leaver, at all, and it upsets me.  I’m hoping he’ll unload, and tell me what’s wrong, though I can guess fairly well for myself.  I could see, all through our consultation, that he held himself in hand with an effort.  The old keenness was there, but not the old command.  He’s worn out, for one thing,—­though there may be more than that.  But, see here,—­do you mean to tell me that’s Amy Mathewson you’ve got downstairs?  Never!  It might be her younger sister—­six years younger—­but not my staid nurse.  Not even you could bring about such a miracle.”

“Isn’t it wonderful?  Yet—­it isn’t, at all.  She’s always worn her hair strained back from her face and put up into that tight coil on the top of her head.  Dressing it properly has made two thirds of the difference and the apricot frock makes the other third.  Isn’t it delightful?”