A long-distance telephone conversation about six o'clock in the afternoon between two voices usually so even and composed that the little pulse of excitement beating through both as they speak now seems perilous, unnatural. One is Mr. Severance's thin cool speech and the other—most curious, that—seems by every obsequious without being servile, trained and impassive turn and phrase to be that of that treasure among household treasures, Elizabeth.

“My instructions were that I was to call you, sir, whenever I was next given an evening out.”

“Yes, Elizabeth. Well?”

“I have been given an evening out tonight, sir.”

“Yes.”

“Mrs. Severance has told me that I am on no account to return till tomorrow morning, sir.”

“Yes. Go on.”

“There are the materials of a small but quite sufficient meal for two persons in the refrigerator, sir. Mrs. Severance is dining out, sir—she said.” “Yes. Any further information?”

“Mrs. Severance received a telephone call this morning, sir, before she went out. It was after that that she told me I was to have the evening.”

“You did not happen to—overhear—the conversation, did you, Elizabeth?”

“Oh no, sir. Mrs. Severance spoke very low. The only words that I could catch were 'You' at the beginning and 'Please come' near the end. The words 'please come' were rather—affectionately—spoken if I might make so bold, sir.”

“You have done very well, Elizabeth.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“There is nothing else?”

“No, sir. Should you wish me to 'phone you again before tomorrow morning, sir?”

“No, Elizabeth.”

“Thank you, sir. Good-by, sir.”

“Good-by, Elizabeth.”