John Ogden continued to reassure his protÉgÉ, telling him that he would be right behind him if there was anything he could do at any time for Carol, and Hugh was fast clearing the dainty tray when, replying to a knock at his door, Miss Frink walked in.

Hugh noticed at once that she was wearing that triumphant expression which portended some contribution to his well-being; and, indeed, she was at once followed by the bearer of a handsome piece of furniture which proved to be the latest artistic shape, and most expensive wood, that can encase a musical machine.

“Music is good for him, Mr. Ogden,” she explained when the polished beauty was set against the wall and the man had left. “Hugh is very fond of music, and I wanted him to be able to have it whenever he wished, and choose his own pieces.”

“Oh, Miss Frink!” exclaimed Hugh, not joyfully, rather with an accent of despair.

“Yes, I know,” she responded, opening the door of the record depository. “He doesn’t want me to get him anything; but for my own sake I ought to have one of these in the house.”

“That is a corker, Miss Frink,” said Ogden, coming forward to make an admiring examination of the Console.

“You pick out something for him,” said Miss Frink. “Where’s Miss Damon?”

“I’m here.” The nurse appeared from the dressing-room and removed Hugh’s tray while Ogden put an opera selection on the machine and started it to playing.

They all listened in silence to the Pilgrims’ Chorus, and Miss Frink watched Hugh’s face, noting that none of that stimulation which the nurse had described as the effect of music appeared upon it.

“Turn it off,” she said brusquely. “He doesn’t like that piece. We’ll try another.”

“Why, yes, I do,” said Hugh when quiet again reigned. “You make me feel deucedly ungrateful.”

“Don’t bother to be grateful, boy,” said Miss Frink imperturbably. “I want you to have what you like. I let the clerk pick out these records and they’re here on trial. Back goes Wagner. Perhaps you’re like the man who heard ‘TannhÄuser’ and said he thought Wagner had better have stuck to his sleeping-cars.”

“I’ll tell you, Miss Frink,” said Miss Damon in her demure voice. “You have the catalogue there, and I think, if you would let Mrs. Lumbard come up and make some selections—she seems to understand Mr. Stanwood’s taste—”

“Bright thought!” exclaimed Miss Frink. “Miss Damon, go over to her room and get her, will you?”

No sooner said than done; and, as soon as the nurse had disappeared, Hugh spoke: “Miss Damon has to leave this afternoon, Miss Frink.”

That lady faced him with a slight frown. “I don’t know about her having to,” she returned.

“Yes, a very sick woman has sent for her,” said Hugh. His voice suddenly burst from his control, “And I can’t stand it any longer!”

“I didn’t know you didn’t like her.”

“You know I do like her,” returned Hugh roughly, “but you know I’ve been trying to get you to let her go for a week.”

“And if you will allow me,” said Ogden, with his most charming and cheery manner, “I will stay a few days and chaperon Hugh over the stairs a few times, enough to give you confidence—he seems to have it plus—”

Miss Frink gave her rare laugh. “That boy is a joke, Mr. Ogden. He spends his days counting my pennies, I do believe. He sees me bankrupt. All right, you stay and Miss Damon shall go.” And here the nurse and AdÈle came into the room.

The latter stared greedily at the object of her curiosity. Flushed with his recent resentment, and robed in the small crimson jewels glinting against their lustrous black background, he sat there, and she devoured him with her eyes.

“Mr. Stanwood, this is—” began Miss Frink, when Hugh, pushing on the arms of his throne, sprang to his feet with a smile of amazement.

“Ally!” he exclaimed.

Miss Frink stared. Another strange name for her incubus. She was no more surprised than the object of Hugh’s laughing recognition. Mrs. Lumbard gazed at him for a delighted, puzzled space.

“I do believe you don’t know me. Why should you?” he cried. “This”—he grasped his robe—“is a little different from the canteen.”

“Hughie!” exclaimed AdÈle, and hurried forward to take both his hands.

“She made music for us over there, Miss Frink. I ought to have known it when I heard her yesterday. Nobody can hit the box quite like Ally.”

“Why do you call her Ally?” Miss Frink found voice to ask.

“Short for Albino,” laughed Hugh. “Of course, Ally.”

Miss Frink’s heart quickened. “In a single night.” The sad statement recurred to her at once; but it was characteristic that she postponed this consideration.

“Here is another chance for you to be useful, AdÈle,” she said. “Take this catalogue over to Mr. Stanwood and between you make out a list of his preferences. Give me three numbers right away.—No, don’t either of you say, ‘Do you remember,’ until I’ve got those numbers. I suppose you can find some of the tunes you had over in France.”

“I don’t want one of them,” said Hugh emphatically. “Not much. That thing you played yesterday, Ally.”

“Oh, yes, that will be here, and other selections from the same opera.”

Meanwhile Miss Frink was exchanging words with Miss Damon, and, as the nurse left to get into her street dress, Miss Frink went to the phone and called a number.

“Is this you, Millicent? This is Miss Frink. Hold the wire. Now, then, AdÈle?”

Mrs. Lumbard came near with the catalogue and gave three numbers in turn. These Miss Frink repeated over the wire. “Have you a pencil there? All right. You’ve written them? All right. Now take a cab, please, and get these records. If you can’t find them one place, go to another. Have them charged to me, and drive out here and ask to be shown up to the White Room.”

She hung up. “You can go on making a longer list now. Perhaps Mr. Ogden will help you. Excuse me while I see Miss Damon.”

Miss Frink left the room, and AdÈle and Hugh immediately fell into reminiscence, John Ogden looking on with an expression not wholly in keeping with the mirthful chuckles that accompanied their resurrected jokes.

“And what’s doing now, Ally? Are you a lady of leisure?” asked Hugh at last.

“Yes; I am visiting Aunt Susanna for a little while, but I’ve got to go at something to earn my living. Do you know Farrandale well, Mr. Ogden?”

“Why—a—pretty well,” returned that gentleman who had suddenly been galvanized by seeing that the young woman had unconsciously picked up a letter lying near her, and was twisting it nervously in her hands. It was Hugh’s letter from Carol.

“Do you think I would have a chance of getting enough music pupils here to make my bread and butter, with occasionally a little jam?” Mrs. Lumbard’s eyes sparkled at the welcome bit of life that had come her way, and she felt jubilant that the drudgery of first moves in an acquaintance had been done away with in the case of herself and “Hughie.” So his name was Stanwood. He was one of the crowd of “Buddies” who doubtless would all remember her, though her stay at their canteen had not been long, and only Hugh’s exceptional looks had marked him out for her remembrance. She hoped his pleasure at seeing her and his enjoyment of her music would weigh in her favor with the difficult relative she had stormed but not conquered. That awful break about her hair! How would she get over that?

“Why, yes, it is a flourishing little town,” returned Ogden, coming nearer, with hungry eyes on the letter. “If there was some way to give them a chance to hear you play.”

Here Miss Frink returned, and Hugh accosted her.

“Ally says she wants to teach music, Miss Frink. You’re always doing nice things for people. Why not let her give a recital here in the house and show the Farrandale folks what she’s made of?”

Miss Frink drew near to his chair, attracted by the interested expression of his face, a vital look she had not before seen.

“You would like that, eh?” she returned indulgently. “You want to give a party? I’ve never given a party,” she added thoughtfully. “I’ve never had the courage.”

“Mr. Ogden and I will back you up.”

“Yes, indeed,” said Ogden, edging nearer the tortured letter, but even then unable to get as close to it as Miss Frink was.

“Mr. Hugh Stanwood Sinclair,” stood out clearly on the envelope, and Ogden could see that its owner was miles away from the consciousness of it.

He slid around Miss Frink’s back. “Excuse me, Mrs. Re—Lumbard, my letter, please.”

AdÈle flattened the bent thing quickly. “Oh, pardon me,” she said, and put it in the outstretched hand. Mechanically, and from the force of fixed habit to see everything, especially those things which it was desired she should not see, she glanced at the letter in passing it; but her attention was quickly absorbed in Hugh’s further suggestions regarding publicity for her, and she was divided between hope and fear as to the effect on Miss Frink of his interest.

Miss Frink continued to stand there, looking down absorbedly into the boy’s gay face, and listening quietly. Hugh laughed and joked with Ogden, planning how they would be ushers on the great occasion, and she stood still, watching him.

AdÈle started to rise. With a motion of her hand Miss Frink prevented her. “Sit still, AdÈle.”

Downstairs a little later Leonard Grimshaw left the study intending to go up to his room.

Stebbins was just opening the front door as he came through the hall. Millicent Duane entered. She bowed to the secretary, but addressed herself to the servant.

“Will you please show me to the White Room?” she said.

Grimshaw, after a patronizing return of her greeting, was moving toward the stairway, but now he paused. “What did you wish, Miss Millicent?”

“Miss Frink sent me for some records and asked me to bring them here to the White Room.”

“Records?” Grimshaw looked dazed. “I thought I heard a band in the street a few minutes ago. I wonder if Miss Frink—” He paused and fixed his round spectacles on Millicent as if he suspected her of being in some plot.

The girl turned again toward Stebbins.

“You don’t need to go up. I’ll take them,” the secretary came forward and held out his hand for the parcel.

“Thank you, but I want to do just what Miss Frink asked me to.” The girl clasped her package closer.

Grimshaw smiled disagreeably. “The White Room is a very attractive place, eh?”

“I don’t know anything about it,” returned the girl, her cheeks reddening at his manner. “I only know that I feel I would rather do exactly what Miss Frink asked. She may have a further errand for me.”

The secretary motioned to Stebbins to go.

“I will take you, then,” he said shortly.

He preceded her up the stairs in silence, thinking his own disturbed thoughts about that band in the street, and poor broken Miss Frink’s obsession.

Arrived at the door of the White Room, they could hear a buzz of voices within, and a man’s laugh. The secretary knocked punctiliously, and Miss Frink herself opened the door.

“That’s a good child,” she said to Millicent. “You made good time. I think you must have read ‘A Message to Garcia.’ Come in and meet Prince Charming.”

Millicent, her cheeks stinging in the sudden understanding of the secretary’s gibe, yielded up her package, and with wide eyes beheld the smiling face above the dressing-gown. She impulsively took a step backward and AdÈle’s lip curled at her expression.

“No, no,” said Miss Frink, “come right in. That’s what she called you, Hugh, before she even knew of your existence. Prince Charming. Now see if you can live up to it.”

Hugh rose, and, though his mind was still echoing with their jokes about the recital, this surprising statement fixed his attention on the blushing, unsmiling girl with the startled eyes, whom Miss Frink was drawing forward. “Miss Duane, Prince Charming,” she said.

The two young things gazed at each other. Poor little intense, conscious Millicent could only nod, her eyes frightened and fascinated.

Hugh nodded, too, smiling. “A case of mistaken identity, Miss Duane,” he said, and dropped back into his chair.

Millicent noted the proximity to it of Mrs. Lumbard’s, as she gave a little nod toward AdÈle and breathed her name.

“Mr. Ogden,” said Miss Frink, without releasing the girl’s hand, “this is my friend Miss Duane; no, don’t go, Millicent. I want you to stay and hear these things you’ve brought. Perhaps we shall want to send them back.”

Leonard Grimshaw had remained in the room, and stood sphinx-like, his eyes first on the new piece of furniture and then on AdÈle, who appeared to be chatting with Hugh in the manner of an old friend.

Mrs. Lumbard noted his surprise.

“I don’t believe I told you I worked in France, Leonard,” she said. “Imagine my amazement to find that Mr. Stanwood is one of my old Buddies.”

The secretary received this information with a stiff bow.

“Sit down, Grim. Never mind me,” said Miss Frink. “Mr. Ogden is teaching me how to run this new plaything. Here”—she carried the unwrapped records to Hugh—“choose your opening number.”

AdÈle, with her head close to his, pointed out the desired ragtime. Miss Frink took it back to the machine.

Hugh looked at Millicent. Her fair hair was shining palely under her blue hat. Her cheeks were glowing. Her eyes were fixed on the music-machine. How could Miss Frink have been so cruel! She could feel the secretary’s scornful spectacles, and Mrs. Lumbard’s cold glance. This fashionable Mr. Ogden. Probably he was contemptuous, too, of the countrified errand-girl so ready to admire Prince Charming.

The music started. As it went on, Miss Frink, staring at her new purchase, began to frown in a puzzled way as if it had maliciously betrayed her, and was chuckling. She finally turned toward Hugh. His face was beaming. He had risen and was sitting on the arm of his chair swinging one of his big satin-shod feet, while he softly beat his knee with one hand.

He looked so handsome and happy she glanced at AdÈle. “Wicked and happy!” was her quick mental exclamation. On, to Millicent, her gaze roved. Plenty of color was there, but no expression. There was no face more naturally expressive. Miss Frink began to suspect that she had embarrassed the girl.

The strains ceased, and “silence like a poultice” fell.

“Bully!” cried Hugh, gayly snapping his fingers. “That’s the stuff.”

“You liked that?” exclaimed Miss Frink. “You like to be cross-eyed and pigeon-toed?”

John Ogden laughed. “He’ll never let you send that one back, Miss Frink. The youth of to-day have reverted to savagery.”

“My vote is that it should go back,” declared Leonard Grimshaw. The sphinx had spoken, and in a voice that cracked.

“Oh, we’re in the minority, Grim,” sighed Miss Frink.

“I don’t believe so,” he said, making one last stand for the circumspection and decency of the house. “Mr. Stanwood and Mrs. Lumbard find it to their taste evidently, but Mr. Ogden I’m sure does not. I think it is simply disgusting, and if Millicent Duane is honest she will say the same.”

His heat amused Hugh, who caught the glance which the young girl, appealed to, turned to him, involuntarily. He leaned forward and held her there. She could not free herself quickly from that laughing, questioning gaze.

Starting up from her chair she said: “I—I don’t believe I heard it—much.”

“Didn’t hear it!” exclaimed Miss Frink, putting her hands over her own suffering ears.

“I—Grandpa is waiting for me, Miss Frink. If you don’t need me any more—”

“No, child. I don’t need you. Thank you, and run along.”

Millicent swept the room with a vague, inclusive nod, and, going out into the hall, hurried to the stairs, and ran down. Her breath came fast, her eyes were dim and she stumbled. Some one behind her, unheard on the thick covering, caught her. She started and flung a hand across her eyes.

“Did you have your cab wait, Miss Duane?” asked John Ogden.