s" conclusions upon the
instrumentality of coincidence had excellent premises. But I was wary
of another meeting with that lady, and so it wanted only a few minutes
of twelve when my maneuvers brought me, unnoticed, I hoped, to the
bower of my seeking. Only to find it empty. Nor was my search of the
floor rewarded by a glimpse of the lavender gown. It was at this point
that I began to call myself names, and it must have been that I spoke
one of them aloud. If not, then mental telepathy had a remarkable
demonstration.

"I would hardly call you a 'fool,' Mr. Page," said a laughing voice
just behind me. "But, really, you _are_ just a little shortsighted,
aren't you?"

"I am sure I have been looking everywhere," I answered, reproachfully.

"For how long, and for whom?" she inquired.

"Let us discuss it in the bower," I suggested.

"How very improper!" she remarked. But she led the way in, and, for
the hour that followed, the world began and ended for me just where a
little semicircle of palms drew its friendly screen about Margery and
me. I believe I ate something; I know I made two forays upon the
supper table and hurried back just in time to come upon Mrs. "Ted,"
who made a most exasperating face at me, but said nothing. And I
remember recording a mental note of Margery's fondness for sweetbreads
_en coquille_. But of the rest my recollection retains only the
picture of a slender girl in the depths of a big, cane chair, a
slipper impertinently cocked upon the rung of another chair, the soft
light which filtered through the leaves throwing into tantalizing
shadow the curves of a mouth and the hide-and-seek play of blue eyes
which were successfully employed in supplying me with an entirely new
set of sensations.

This experience, absorbing to myself, apparently was not without its
diversion to the other party, for there was just enough left of "Home,
Sweet Home" to identify the air when Margery suddenly slipped from the
chair, and I, perforce, followed her. "I will be ready in ten
minutes," she told me. "Meet me downstairs." Then she turned--to run
into the arms of Mrs. "Ted."

I waited by. There was no alternative; Mrs. "Ted" held me with a
glance that definitely said: "Flight is at your peril."

She asked Margery a question. I did not catch the words, but Margery's
reply was unmistakable. "Why, of course, Mr. Page will take me home.
Edith expects me, you know." And with that she passed into the
dressing room.