ied to him. He pleaded. He
scolded. He even threatened, as a last resort, to get out of bed and
go in immediate search of her; and in return, Jeal told him very
affably that it was far less difficult to manage a patient in a
straight-jacket than one out of it, and that personally nothing would
please him so much as a plausible pretext for clapping Mr. Woods into
one of 'em. Jeal had his own methods in dealing with the fractious.

Then Billy clamoured for Colonel Hugonin, and subsequently the Colonel
came in some bewilderment to his daughter's rooms.

"Billy says that will ain't to be probated," he informed her, testily.
"I'm to make sure it ain't probated till he gets well. You're to give
me your word you'll do nothing further in the matter till Billy gets
well. That's his message, and I'd like to know what the devil this
infernal nonsense means. I ain't a Fenian nor yet a Guy Fawkes,
daughter, and in consequence I'm free to confess I don't care for all
this damn mystery and shilly-shallying. But that's the message."

Miss Hugonin debated with herself. "That I will do nothing further in
the matter till Billy gets well," she repeated, reflectively. "Yes, I
suppose I'll have to promise it, but you can tell him for me that I
consider he is _horrid_, and just as obstinate and selfish as he can
_possibly_ be. Can you remember that, attractive?"

"Yes, thank you," said the Colonel. "I can remember it, but I ain't
going to. Nice sort of message to send a sick man, ain't it? I don't
know what's gotten into you, Margaret--no, begad, I don't! I think
you're possessed of seventeen devils. And now," the old gentleman
demanded, after an awkward pause, "are you or are you not going to
tell me what all this mystery is about?"

"I can't," Miss Hugonin protested. "It--it's a secret, attractive."

"It ain't," said the Colonel, flatly--"it's some more damn
foolishness." And he went away in a fret and using language.

XXXII

Left to herself, Miss Hugonin meditated.

Miss Hugonin was in her kimono.

And oh, Madame Chrysastheme! oh, Madame Butterfly! Oh, Mimosa San, and
Pitti Sing, and Yum Yum, and all ye vaunted beauties of Japan! if you
could have seen her in that garb! Poor little ladies of the Orient,
how hopelessly you would have wrung your henna-stained fingers! Poor
little Ichabods of the East, whose glory departed irretrievably when
she adopted this garment, I tremble to think of the heart-burnings and
palpitations an