or not they approved of him. Now, suddenly, he
wanted Sonya's respect as well as her liking. The discovery added to his
mental confusion.

If Sonya, when she entered the sick-room, was shocked by the change in
the appearance of her new friend, she showed no sign of it. Sitting down
beside the _chaise longue_, she entered briskly upon a description of
the recent experiences of Samuel. When she left the hospital the house
surgeon was obediently endeavoring to look down the throat of Hullen R.
J., and every nurse on Samuel's floor was scuttering in and out of his
room. Nevertheless the Infant, though graciously accepting these
attentions, had demanded and received Sonya's personal assurance that
the particular game of the morning was not to be repeated. There was an
unpleasant element in that game which grown-ups might not notice but
which he, Samuel, had caught on to.

Louise laughed and expressed a hope that Samuel would now be able to
breathe without disturbing his neighbors. Sonya came to the real purpose
of her visit.

"He and his mother are going back to Devon House Saturday," she said,
"but I've got to stay in New York for a few months, on account of my
literary galumphings. I wondered if you--if it would be convenient for
you--to put me up. I hate hotels and--"

Louise lay silent for a moment. Then she reached out and took Sonya's
hand.

"Yes, you unskilful prevaricator," she said. "You may come--and see me
through."

Sonya held the hand tightly in her own.

"There's one thing more," she went on, hesitatingly. "Laurie and Mr.
Bangs and I wondered if perhaps you wouldn't feel more comfortable if
Mr. Warren came home. You know he himself would want to--"

Louise closed her eyes.

"Yes," she said, "Bob would want to, if he knew."

She was silent for so long that Sonya began to think she was not to have
the answer to her question. Perhaps Mrs. Ordway was leaving the decision
to her.

But to leave to others decisions that concerned herself was not Louise
Ordway's habit. Instead, she was fighting a battle in which the lifelong
devotion of a supremely self-centered nature was struggling with a
new-born unselfishness. Though new-born, it was strong, as the invalid's
next words showed.

"If I were calling him back from anything but his honeymoon," she said
at last, "I'd do it. But he's utterly happy. His letters show that, in
every line. I want him to stay so, as long as he can. I want his
honeymoon to be