present Mrs.
Harrington? she wondered before she thought--and then remembered.
Why--_she_ was! So there was no Phyllis Braithwaite any more! Of course
not.... Yet she had always liked the name so--well, a last name was a
small thing to give up.... Into her mind fitted an incongruous, silly
story she had heard once at the library, about a girl whose last name
was Rose, and whose parents christened her Wild, because the combination
appealed to them. And then she married a man named Bull.... Meanwhile
the housekeeper had been going on.

... "She had the bedroom and bath opening from the other side of Mr.
Allan's day-room ready for you, madam. It's been ready several weeks."

"Has it?" said Phyllis. It was like Mrs. Harrington, that careful
planning of even where she should be put. "Is Mr. Harrington in his
day-room now?"

For some reason she did not attempt to give herself, she did not want to
see him again just now. Besides, it was nearly eleven and time a very
tired girl was in bed. She wanted a good night's rest, before she had to
get up and be Mrs. Harrington, with Allan and the check-book and the
Current Expenses all tied to her.

Some one had laid everything out for her in the bedroom; the filmy new
nightgown over a chair, the blue satin mules underneath, her plain
toilet-things on a dressing-table, and over another chair the exquisite
ivory crepe negligee with its floating rose ribbons. She took a hasty
bath--there was so much hot water that she was quite reconciled for a
moment to being a check-booked and wolf hounded Mrs. Harrington--and
slid straight into bed without even stopping to braid her loosened,
honey-colored hair.

It seemed to her that she was barely asleep when there came an urgent
knocking at her door.

"Yes?" she said sleepily, looking mechanically for her alarm-clock as
she switched on the light. "What is it, please?"

"It's I, Wallis, Mr. Allan's man, Madame," said a nervous voice. "Mr.
Allan's very bad. I've done all the usual things, but nothing seems to
quiet him. He hates doctors so, and they make him so wrought up--please
could you come, ma'am? He says as how all of us are all dead--oh,
_please_, Mrs. Harrington!"

There was panic in the man's voice.

"All right," said Phyllis sleepily, dropping to the floor as she spoke
with the rapidity that only the alarm-clock-broken know. She snatched
the negligee around her, and thrust her feet hastily into the blue satin
slippers--why, she w