l on you in the city?"

"Unless the Guides forbid."

They were walking side by side now; they had turned from the sunken
arena, which surrounded the tennis court, toward the house. Blake saw
that the driver of the Mountain House stage was approaching. He waved a
yellow envelope as he came on:

"Been looking for you, Miss Markham. Telegram. Charges paid."

Dr. Blake stepped away as Annette, in the preliminary flutter of fear
with which a woman always receives a telegram, tore open the envelope
and read the enclosure. Without a word, she handed it over to him. It
read:

ANNETTE MARKHAM:

Take next train home. Advice of Martha. Wire arrival.

PAULA MARKHAM.

"Perhaps the Guides know," she said, smiling but quivering, too.
"Perhaps they're going to make it easier for me."

IV

HIS FIRST CALL

Dear Mr. Blake (read the letter): It was nice to get your note and
to know that you are back in town so soon. Of course you must come
to see me. I want Aunt Paula to know that all the complimentary
things I have said about you are true. We are never at home in the
conventional sense--but I hope Wednesday evening will do.

Cordially,

ANNETTE MARKHAM.

He had greeted this little note with all the private follies of lovers.
Now for the hundredth time, he studied it for significances, signs,
pretty intimacies; and he found positively nothing about it which he
did not like. True, he failed to extract any important information
from the name of the stationer, which he found under the flap of the
envelope; but on the other hand the paper itself distinctly pleased
him. It was note-size and of a thick, unfeminine quality. He approved
of the writing--small, fine, legible, without trace of seminary
affectation. And his spirits actually rose when he observed that it
bore no coat-of-arms--not even a monogram.

At last, with more flourishes of folly, he put the note away in his
desk and inspected himself in the glass. To the credit of his modesty,
he was thinking not of his white tie--fifth that he had ruined in the
process of dressing--nor yet of the set of his coat. He was thinking
of Mrs. Paula Markham and the impression which these gauds and graces
might make upon her.

"What do you suppose she's like?" he asked inaudibly of the correct
vision in the glass.

He had exhausted all the possibilities--a fat, pretentious medium whom
Annette's mind transformed by the alchemy of ol