you told me."
"Well," May echoed dolefully; "I think you might be more sympathetic."
"What did you do with the letter?" asked Mrs. Harbinger.
"I gave it to Graham to post."
"Then very likely no harm is done. Graham never in his life posted a letter under two days."
"Oh, do you think so?" May asked, brightening visibly at the suggestion. "You don't think he despised me, and wouldn't come?"
Mrs. Harbinger gave her a little shake.
"You hussy!" she exclaimed, with too evident an enjoyment of the situation to be properly severe. "How was it addressed?"
"Just to Christopher Calumus, in care of the publishers."
"Well, my dear," the hostess declared, "your precious epistle is probably in the butler's pantry now; or one of the maids has picked it up from the kitchen floor. I warn you that if I can find it I shall read it."
"Oh, you wouldn't!" exclaimed May in evident distress.
"Um! Wouldn't I, though? The way you take the suggestion shows that it's time somebody looked into your correspondence with this stranger."
May opened her lips to protest again, but the voice of Graham was heard announcing Mr. Barnstable, and Mrs. Harbinger turned to greet the late-coming stranger. The gentleman's hair had apparently been scrubbed into sleekness, but had here and there broken through the smooth outer surface as the stuffing of an old cushion breaks through slits in the covering. His face was red, and his air full of self-consciousness. When he entered the drawing-room Mr. Harbinger was close behind him, but the latter stopped to speak with Bradish and Mrs. Neligage, and Barnstable advanced alone to where Mrs. Harbinger stood with May just behind her.
"Heavens, May," the hostess said over her shoulder. "Here is your carnation. I hope you are pleased with the bearer."
Barnstable stood hesitating, looking around as if to discover the hostess. On the face of Mrs. Croydon only was there sign of recognition. She bowed at him rather than to him, with an air so distant that no man could have spoken to her after such a frigid salutation. The stranger turned redder and redder, made a half step toward Mrs. Croydon, and then stopped. Fortunately Mr. Harbinger hastened up, and presented him to the hostess. That lady greeted him politely, but she had hardly exchanged the necessary commonplaces, before she put out her hand to where May stood watching in dazed surprise.
"Let me present you to Miss Calthorpe," she said. "Mr. Barnstable, May."
She glided away with a twinkle in her eye which must have implied that she had no fear in leaving the romantic girl with a lover that looked like that. May and Barnstable stood confronting each other a moment in awkward silence, and then the girl tossed her head with the air of a young colt that catches the bit between his teeth.
"I had quite given you up," she said in a voice low, but distinct.
"Eh?" he responded, with a startled look. "Given me up?"
"I have been watching for the carnation all the afternoon."
"Carnation?" he echoed, trying over his abundant chins to get a glimpse of the flower in his buttonhole. "Oh, yes; I generally wear a carnation. They keep, don't you know; and it was always the favorite flower of my wife."
"Your wife?" demanded Miss Calthorpe.
Her cheeks grew crimson, and she drew herself up haughtily.
"Yes," Barnstable replied, looking confused. "That is, of course, she that was my wife."
"I should never have believed," May observed distantly, "that 'Love in a Cloud' could have been written by a widower."
Barnstable began to regard her as if he were in doubt whether she or he himself had lost all trace of reason.
"'Love in a Cloud,'" he repeated, "'Love in a Cloud'? Do you know who wrote that beastly book?"
Her color shot up, and the angry young goddess declared itself in every line of her face. Her pose became instantly a protest.
"How dare you speak of that lovely book in that way?" she demanded. "It is perfectly exquisite!"
"But who wrote it?" he demanded in his turn, growing so red as to suggest awful possibilities of apoplexy.
"Didn't you?" she stammered. "Are you running it down just for modesty?"
"I! I! I write 'Love in a Cloud'?" cried Barnstable, speaking so loud that he could be heard all over the room. "You insult me, Miss – Miss Calthump! You – "
His feelings were evidently too much for him. He turned with rude abruptness, and looking about him, seemed to become aware that the eyes of almost everybody in the room were fixed on him. He cast a despairing glance to where Mrs. Harbinger and Mrs. Croydon were for the moment standing together, and then started in miserable flight toward the door. At the threshold he encountered Graham the butler, who presented him with a handful of letters.
"Will you please give the letters to Mrs. Harbinger?" Graham said, and vanished.
Barnstable looked after the butler, looked at the letters, looked around as if his head were swimming, and then turned back into the drawing-room. He walked up to the hostess, and held out the letters in silence, his fluffy face a pathetic spectacle of embarrassed woe.
"What are these?" Mrs. Harbinger asked.
He shook his head, as if he had given up all hope of understanding anything.
"The butler put them in my hands," he murmured.
"Upon my word, Mrs. Harbinger," spoke up Mrs. Croydon, seeming more offended than there was any apparent reason for her to be, "you have the most extraordinary butler that ever existed."
Mrs. Harbinger threw out her hands in a gesture by which she evidently disclaimed all responsibility for Graham and his doings.
"Extraordinary! Why, he makes my life a burden. There is no mistake he cannot make, and he invents fresh ones every day. Really, I know of no reason why the creature is tolerated in the house except that he makes a cocktail to suit Tom."
"Dat ees ver' greet veertue," Count Shimbowski commented genially.
"I do not agree with you, Count," Miss Wentstile responded stiffly.
The spinster had been hovering about the Count ever since his accident with the teacup, apparently seeking an opportunity of snubbing him.
"Oh, but I die but eef Mees Wentsteele agree of me!" the Count declared with his hand on his heart.
Mrs. Croydon in the meanwhile had taken the letters from the hand of Barnstable, and was looking at them with a scrutiny perhaps closer than was exactly compatible with strict good-breeding.
"Why, here is a letter that has never been posted," she said.
Mr. Harbinger took the whole bundle from her hand.
"I dare say," was his remark, "that any letter that's been given to Graham to mail in the last week is there. Why, this letter is addressed to Christopher Calumus."
May Calthorpe moved forward so quickly that Mrs. Harbinger, who had extended
