Peyster," answered Mary. "But of course it
could hardly interest you much, for you've never met her--at least I
supposed not, Angelica."

"I've--seen her," corrected Angelica. "What--what news?"

"Why," cried Mary in her soft, happy contralto, "Judge Harvey just
telephoned that the latest papers contain cables saying that Mrs. De
Peyster has just left Paris on that long motor trip of hers to the
Balkans. That means that Jack's mother must be quite well again. We
all feel so relieved--so very, very relieved!"

Mrs. De Peyster also felt relief--and some badly needed courage flowed
into her. Olivetta's part of the plan, at least, was working out as
per schedule.

Finally Mary went, Matilda brought in her lunch, and the afternoon
began to wear itself away, Mrs. De Peyster keeping most of the time
to the hard, narrow bed of the second maid. Twice, however, she got up
while Matilda guarded her door, stood at her high, cell-like
window, and peered through the slats of the closed shutter, past the
purple-and-lavender plumes of the wistaria that climbed on up to the
roof, and out upon the soft, green, sunny spaces of Washington Square.
The Square, which she had been proud to live upon but rarely walked
in,--only children and nursemaids and the commoner people actually
walked in it,--the Square looked so expansive, so free, so inviting.
And this tiny cell--these days of early May were unseasonably,
hot--seemed to grow more narrow and more stifling every moment. How
had any one ever, ever voluntarily endured it!

Mrs. De Peyster learned that Jack was studying at home, and studying
hard. With the return of Matilda to the house, Jack repeated his
instruction concerning the piano: Matilda was to tell any inquisitive
folk that Mrs. De Peyster had bought a player-piano shortly before
she sailed, and that she, Matilda, was operating it to while away
the tedious hours. This device made it possible for Mary to begin her
neglected practice.

With the certainty of being bored, yet with an irrepressible
curiosity, Mrs. De Peyster, piano-lover, awaited during the morning
and early forenoon Mary's first assault upon the instrument. She would
be crude, no doubt of it; no technique, no poetic suavity of touch, no
sense of interpretation.

When from the rear drawing-room the grand piano sent upwards to Mrs.
De Peyster its first strains, they were rapid, careless scales and
runs. Quite as she'd expected. Then the player began Chopin's Bal