upper servant of some sort who sits at the family table by
sufferance. He was about to gasp out her name when she met his eyes with
a glinty stare and a quick shake of the head. Then Pierrette addressed a
remark to her--kindly meant to relieve her embarrassment--referring to a
walk over the hills they had taken together that afternoon.

"Ah, Smeraldina!" cried Pantaloon, "how is that last chapter? Columbine
refuses to show me any more of the book until it is finished. I look to
you to make a duplicate for my private perusal."

Here was light of a sort upon the strange household; its mistress was a
writer of books; Constance was her secretary; but the effort to explain
how his sister came to be masquerading in such a role left him
doddering, and that she should refuse to recognize him--her own brother!

"If that new book is half as good as 'The Madness of May,'" Pantaloon was
saying, "I shall not be disappointed."

"Oh, it's much better; infinitely better!" Constance declared warmly.

"Tuck, do you realize we are in the presence of greatness?" cried Hood.
Then, turning to Columbine: "The author will please accept my heartiest
congratulations!"

"Thank you kindly," replied the hostess. "I'm fortunate in my secretary.
Smeraldina is my fifth, and the first who ever made a suggestion that was
of the slightest use. The others had no imagination; they all objected to
being called Smeraldina, and one of them was named Smith!"

"I'm afraid I'm the first who ever had the impertinence to suggest
anything," Constance answered humbly.

This was not the sister Deering had known in his old life before he fell
victim to the prevailing May madness. She was in servitude and evidently
trying to make the best of it. She had been the jolliest, the most
high-spirited of girls, and to find her now meekly acting as amanuensis
to a lady whose very name he didn't know sent his imagination stumbling
through the blindest of dark alleys.

Only the near presence of Pierrette and her perfect composure and
good-nature checked his inclination to stand up and shout to relieve his
feelings.

"I hope you don't mind my not turning up for breakfast," she remarked in
her low, bell-like tones.

Deering's hopes rose. That breakfast at the bungalow seemed the one
tangible incident of his twenty-four hours in Hood's company and,
perhaps, if he let her take the lead, he might find himself on solid
earth again.

"I'd been week-ending with Babette; sh