Spring was turbulent in the sap of young trees and the blood of young humans when Mary Delia James rolled along Fifth Avenue in the quietly elegant limousine provided for her special use by a correctly generous husband. Nothing about her suggested participation in the turbulence of the season. Rather, life with that most unvernal young man, T. Jameson James, would have served to allay any tendencies toward ebullience which she might otherwise have exhibited. She gave the impression of a cool impassivity.

The car had just turned into a side street when her languid expression livened. She signalled to her chauffeur, leaned out of the window and called:

"Cary! Cary Scott!"

The object of the summons turned in mid-crossing and came back, his eyes shining with pleasure.

"Dee! It is good to see you again. How's James?"

"All right, thank you. What do you mean by turning up and not letting us know?"

"Unexpected," he explained. "I hardly had time to find it out before I was here."

"The telegraph, that useful invention, is still operating. Get in; we're blocking traffic. You're dining and spending the night with us, of course."

"If I stay over," he answered dubiously. "I don't know yet. Tell me about the family."

"As usual. We're all flourishing in true Fentriss style."

"Pat? And Mr. Fentriss? And the Brownings?"

"Separated. No; I don't mean Fred and Con," she amended, laughing at the dismay in his face. "Dad and the Brownings. Fred's sticking to business and to Con; they've got a cottage over beyond the Club; addition in June, not to the cottage, to the family. Pat's running Holiday Knoll like a veteran, though just now she's in Boston. She'll be sunk in desolation when she finds you've been here and she's missed you."

"Perhaps I'll be back again when she returns," he said carelessly, but his words belied his inward resolution so to arrange his schedule that he would run no risk of the peace-destroying encounter. As a minor determination, he decided to accept Dee's invitation for the night, since it involved no danger of seeing Pat.

"Yes; Pat's quite doing her job," continued Dee. "It's good for her to have the responsibility. But she's still a queer, restless, morbid kid. You saw a lot of her at one time, Cary. I always thought you had a steadying influence on her. What's the matter with Pat, do you think?"

"The fever of the age, perhaps."

"Oh, we've all got that. But Pat's temperature is particularly high. She rushes from one whirl to another, playing Billy-old-hell with Mark Denby one week, and Emslie Selfridge another, and Selden Thorpe, a third, and what does she get out of it? Not even excitement, or else she's a little liar. She's beaten it now because she says she's bored to suicide with this place."

"And you yourself, Dee? How is it with you?"

"Oh, I've everything I want," she said restlessly.

"Everything should include happiness; I'm glad."

"What's that? Don't know—yeh." Her voice was hard. "Please stop looking at me like a solemn owl, as if you were probing for symptoms. Bobs does all that I need in that line."

"Osterhout? How is he?"

"Go and see him. He needs stirring up. You are coming to us to-night, aren't you?"

"Only too charmed. What's this place?" he asked, as the car drew to the curb.

"My tailor's. Will you wait for me?"

"Heavens, no!" he laughed. "I'm nearly forty now. Can't spare the time."

"Then account for yourself before you go. What brings you here so suddenly and without any announcement?"

"A peculiar mission."

"Private, for a guess. Not hooked, are you, Cary?"

"Nothing of that nature. It's private, but not secret, from you. In fact, you may be able to help me."

"I? In what possible way?"

"I want to find Stanley Wollaston."

At the name a slow colour rose in Dee's cheeks until it tinged even the broadly and beautifully modelled forehead. "He's gone away. To Richmond. I can give you his address."

"Good! I've some important news for him. There's no reason why you shouldn't know it. His aunt in England has died and left him the estate. Stan's lean days are over."

The rich hue ebbed out of Dee's face. "He'll go back, then," she mused. At once she recovered herself. "I am glad," she said.

"I knew you would be," he answered. But he thought with pity: "She still loves him"; and, with uneasiness, "and still sees him." He continued: "He'll be going back within a month at the latest. I'll go on to-morrow to find him."

He got out, bared his head, and helped her to alight.

"At seven o'clock then," she said. "Shall I get some people in? Who do you want to see?"

"No one else in the world," he answered with such conviction that she smiled up at him.

"You are a dear, Cary. I can't tell you how much we've missed you. Pat almost went into mourning."

She did not see his expression change, ever so slightly, as he turned away. Business of his own kept Scott busy most of the afternoon. When he reached the club he found Jameson James waiting to motor him out. James was amiable in his stiff and carefully measured way.

Scott went to his room immediately upon their arrival, bathed, dressed, drank the preliminary cocktail which Dee had mixed with her own hands and sent up to him, and had started to go downstairs when he stopped, his breath piling up, as it were, in his throat from an emotion half dismay, half rapture. The unforgettable, luscious huskiness of a voice floated up from below.

"Dee; where are you? Do come and hook this last hook for me. I can't get the dam' thing to stay."

He took a step forward. Pat looked up. "Oh, Mist-er Scott!" she crowed. "It's too flawless to see you again. I thought you were never coming back."