"I've have been entertaining angels unawares,--in the next block, that
is," he answered. "Listen to this: 'Mrs. Theodora McAlister Farrington,
the novelist, who has been spending the winter with her sister, Mrs.
Holden of Murray Street, left for her home in New England, to-night.'"

"Ah--h!" There was a sigh of content from across the table. "Now I have
my bearings. My imp is Mac Holden and Mrs. Farrington is Aunt Teddy, of
course. I met her in New York, last winter, at a dinner or two; but she
evidently had forgotten me. Such is fame!"

"Which?" his sister inquired, as she rose to leave the table.




CHAPTER TWO


The Savins, glistening in its snowy blanket, wore an air of expectancy,
the house on the corner below was being swept and garnished, while the
cold twilight air was burdened with savory odors suggestive of feastings
to come. Mrs. McAlister came back from a final survey of the corner
house, made her eleventh tour of the parlor, dining-room and kitchen at
The Savins, and then took her stand at the front window where she tapped
restlessly on the glass and swayed the curtain to and fro impatiently.
She was not a nervous woman; but to-night her mood demanded constant
action. Moreover, it was only an hour and a quarter before the train was
due. If she were not watchful, the carriage might come without her
knowing it, and the occupants miss half their welcome home.