"Peter--it can't be you!" Schuyler exclaimed.
"It's all that's left of me, after missing the luxe and travelling for
about seventeen years in any sort of old train I could get," she replied
with elaborate nonchalance. "Kindly don't stare as if I were Banquo's
ghost or something. I'm so tired and dusty and desperately hungry that
if you don't grin at once I shall dissolve in tears."
She held out both hands, and Jim, aching to seize her in his arms and
kiss her breath away, took the extended hands as if they had been marked
"dangerous."
"Where's your father?" was his first question.
"In New York, as far as I know."
"Great Scott! you haven't come here from Scotland alone?"
"I thought I had, but if you say I haven't, perhaps I've been attended
by spirit chaperons."
"My--dear girl, what has possessed you? You are looking impish. What
have you come for?"
"Partly to see my darling, precious Mary Grant and criticise her Prince.
Partly----"
"Well?"
"Why does your face suddenly look as if you suspected me of criminal
intentions?"
"Don't keep me in suspense, my dear goose!"
"Why not 'duck?' It's a day for ducks. Only you're so afraid of paying
me compliments. I see you think you know why I've come. Tell me at once,
or I won't play. Be frank."
"You really want frankness?"
"Of course. I'm afraid of nothing."
"Well, then--er--I couldn't help seeing in New York that you and Dick
Carleton----"
"Good gracious! if I'm a goose, what _are_ you? There's no word for it.
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