er searching look. She
only shrugged her shoulders wearily in answer.

They were silent for a few minutes, and then John came out of the house
with his bag in his hand. Lydia followed him down the steps.

Lydia was somewhat puzzled by the manner of the visitors, but relieved
to see that they were not planning to strain the hospitality of the
house for lunch. It was merely a question of thanks and good-byes now,
and these she had come forth to receive with dignity.

"Your suitcase is in?" John said to his friend. He put his own into the
rumble, snaps were snapped and locks closed. He did not look at Martie.
He lifted his cap, and took Lydia's hand. "Good-bye, Miss Monroe, and
thank you. Good-bye, Martie. Everything all right, Dean?"

He got into his seat. Lydia gave her hand in turn to the novelist.

"You mustn't count on a visit from this girl here, at Glen Mary," Lydia
said in pleasant warning. "She's going to be a pretty busy girl from
now on, I expect!"

"So she was saying," Dean Silver said gravely. "Our own plans may be
changed," he added casually. "I may yet persuade Dryden here to sail up
the Nile with me!"

"I certainly think any one who has such a wonderful opportunity would
be foolish to decline it," Lydia observed cheerfully.

"Good-bye," said the writer to Martie. "You'll wire me if you can, I
know!"

"Good-bye," she said, hardly conscious of what was being done and said,
in the fever of excitement that was consuming her. "And thank you!"

He jumped into the car. Martie, trembling, stepped back beside Lydia as
the engine began to throb.

"Good-bye, John," she faltered. John lifted his cap; the driver waved a
gloved hand.

They were gone.

"I'm so glad you told him about your engagement, Martie!" Lydia said
approvingly. "It was the only honest thing to do. And dear me, isn't it
quite a relief to think that they've had their visit, and it's over,
and everything is explained and understood?"

"Isn't it?" Martie echoed dully.

She went upstairs. The harsh light of the summer noon did not penetrate
the old Monroe house. Martie's room was full of greenish light; there
was an opaque streak across the old mirror where she found her white,
tired face.

She flung herself across the bed. Her heart was still beating high, and
her lips felt dry and hot. She could neither rest nor think, but she
lay still for a long while.

Chief among her confused emotions was relief. He had come, he had
frightened