Frederick Towne’s picture was in the paper. “I like his face,” said Jane, “and he doesn’t seem so frightfully old.”

“Why should she run away from him, if he wasn’t a tyrant?” he demanded furiously.

“Well, don’t scold me.” Jane was as vivid as an oriole in the midst of her orange wools.

She loved color. The living-room was an expression of it. Its furniture was old-fashioned but not old-fashioned enough to be lovely. Jane had, however, modified its lack of grace and its dull monotonies by covers of chintz—tropical birds against black and white stripes—and there was a lamp of dull blue pottery with a Chinese shade. A fire in the coal grate, with the glow of the lamp, gave the room a look of burnished brightness. The kitten,[37] curled up in Jane’s lap, played cozily with the tawny threads.

[37]

“Don’t scold me,” said Jane, “it isn’t my fault.”

“I’m not scolding, but I’m worried to death. And you aren’t any help, are you?”

She looked at him in astonishment. “I’ve tried to help. I told you to call up.”

Young Baldwin walked the floor.

“She trusted me.”

“You won’t get anywhere with that,” said Jane with decision. “The thing to do is to tell Mr. Towne that you have news of her, and that you’ll give it only under promise that he won’t do anything until he has talked it over with you.”

“That sounds better,” said young Baldwin; “how did you happen to think of it?”

“Now and then,” said Jane, “I have ideas.”

Baldy went to the telephone. When he came back his eyes were like gray moons. “He promised everything, and he’s coming out——”

“Here?”

“Yes, he wouldn’t wait until to-morrow. He’s wild about her——”

“Well, he would be.” Jane mentally surveyed the situation. “Baldy, I’m going to make some coffee, and have some cheese and crackers.”

“He may not want them.”

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