still clutching at the new-comer, was protesting with extreme vigor,
and being entirely drowned out by the others. "Of course he can't
stay--as he _is!_ I'll go home with him at once! His room at my house
is always ready for him!--fresh clothes!--No, no--impossible to stay!"
Mrs. Marshall-Smith was holding firm with her loveliest manner of warm
friendliness concentrated on Page. "Oh, no ceremony, Mr. Page, not
between old friends. Luncheon is just ready--who cares how you look?"
She did not physically dispute with Mr. Sommerville the possession of
the new-comer, but she gave entirely that effect.

Sylvia, unable to meet Morrison's eyes, absorbed in the difficulty of
the moment for her, unillumined by the byplay between her aunt and old
Mr. Sommerville, strove for an appearance of vivacious loquacity, and
cast into the conversation entirely disregarded bits of description
of the fire. "Oh, Tantine, such an excitement!--we took nine men
with hoes up such a steep--!" And finally Page, resisting old Mr.
Sommerville's pull on his arm, was saying: "If luncheon is ready,
and I'm invited, no more needs to be said. I've been haying and
fire-fighting since seven this morning. A wolf is nothing compared
with me." He looked across the heads of the three nearest him and
called to Arnold: "Smith, you'll lend me some flannels, won't you? We
must be much of the same build."

Mrs. Marshall-Smith turned, taking no pains to hide her satisfaction.
She positively gloated over the crestfallen Mr. Sommerville. "Sylvia,
run quick and have Helene smooth your hair. And call to Tojiko to put
on an extra place for luncheon. Arnold, take Mr. Page up to your room,
won't you, so that he--"

Sylvia, running up the stairs, heard her late companion protesting:
"Oh, just for a change of clothes, only a minute--you needn't expect
me to do any washing. I'm clean. I'm washed within an inch of my
life--yellow soap--kitchen soap!"

"And our little scented toilet futilities," Morrison's cameo of
small-talk carried to the upper hall. "What could they add to such a
Spartan lustration?"

"Hurry, Helene," said Sylvia. "It is late, and Mr. Page is dying of
hunger,"

In spite of the exhortation to haste, Helene stopped short, uplifted
brush in hand. "Mr. Page, the millionaire!" she exclaimed.

Sylvia blinked at her in the glass, amazed conjectures racing through
her mind. But she had sufficient self-possession to say, carelessly as
though his identity was n