softly tentative:

"Yes?"

. . . . . .

"Oh, Mr. Farraday! How are you?"

. . . . . .

"Yes, this is Violet Hawtry."

. . . . . .

"Deliciously well, thank you."

. . . . . .

"Yes, he's here, but the gay young thing has gone to bed hours ago."

. . . . . .

"Most interesting for me, but I have to submit."

. . . . . .

"Oh, lovely. Do come. I'll adore having him routed out for you. Of
course we'll go with you. I had forgot that Simone was to dance at the
Beach Inn to-night."

. . . . . .

"No indeed, I have not undressed at all. I was going to study a part
to-night."

. . . . . .

"I'm sure Godfrey can be dressed in half an hour, and it will take even
your Surreness that time to get here. Take the beach road; it's fine.
Good-by then. In half an hour."

. . . . . .

With which ending and beginning the Violet hung up the ivory receiver
and rang for Susette. The summons was answered by Mrs. Aline Hawtry,
_nee_ Maggie Murphy the first, an embarrassing but in a manner cherished
relict of the Hawtry past life in Weehawken.

"Sure, and the little Frinchy is a-bed, Mag! What be ye wanting? The
night is after sneaking out the back door of the morning." Mrs. Hawtry,
once Murphy, was a big bonny edition of the Violet grown into a cabbage
rose and her voice was also of the same rich texture.

"Rout out Godfrey, Ma, and then stir up Susette with a hot stick. Mr.
Dennis Farraday is coming down to take us over to see Simone dance at
the Beach Inn. I want him to see me instead of Simone. Hurry!"

"The poor dear boy, after a hard day in the cruel hot city. Alack!"
moaned Mrs. Maggie as she billowed across to Mr. Vandeford's door and
knocked. Then she paused and knocked again. From neither knock did she
receive an answer as the moment was just about the one in which he had
boarded the New York bound train a half mile up the beach down which Mr.
Dennis Farraday was racing.

When a search of the unresponsive room had convinced the Violet of his
flight, for a moment her eyes were stormy, then her face cleared with a
smile of delight, and as she padded back to her room and the waiting
Susette, to herself she purred:

"Nobody can beat my luck."

CHAPTER II

There is a certain kind of man over whom all other men smile inwardly.
The tone of voice in which they speak of him has an affectionate growl,
which, once heard, cannot be mistaken. Such a man is apt to cherish what
other me