She practised the detached, casual sort of smile with which she would
greet him, and the patient, uninterested silence with which she would
listen to his apologies. Then, realizing that these histrionics would be
somewhat marred by a pink negligée, she struggled into her dinner dress.

It was then seven o'clock and time to practise some more vehement reception
for the laggard. It went well--very well. Any man would have been
annihilated by it, but there was still no man when half-past seven came.

Quite suddenly she fell into a panic. John was dead! She had heard and
read of the perils of New York. She had seen a hundred potential
accidents on her drive from the ferry. Trolley, anarchist, elevated
railroad, collapsed buildings, frightened horses, runaway automobiles.
Her dear John! Her mangled husband! Passing out of the world, even while
she, his widowed bride, was dressing in hideous colors, and thinking so
falsely of him!

He must be brought to her. Some one should go and say something to
somebody! Telephone Uncle Richard! She flew to the directory, which had
interested her so little when the polite bellboy of the itching palm had
pointed it out to her, and presently she had startled a respectable old
stockbroker, so thoroughly and so hastily that he burst into his wife's
presence with the news that John Blake had met with a frightful accident
and was being carried to the hotel in the automobile of some rich
gentleman from Paterson, New Jersey.

"Hurry down there at once," commanded Aunt Richard, who was as staid
and practical as the wife of a stockbroker ought to be, "and bring the
two poor lambs here in your car. Take the big one. They'll want plenty