“Read it,” commanded his wife, crisply. You dear, good people, I’m the biggest wretch on earth. Did so want to get to you before the house party broke up, but there’s the Reffolds’ dinner for to-night which I had entirely forgotten. Hope to get down for a week end later. Love to all. JANE. For fully half a minute not a sound was heard in the stuffily furnished Willoughby library. Then Miss Willoughby, in a voice ominously calm, asked: “Will you kindly tell us the number of words in that telegram, Jacob?” “Total, fifty,” murmured Jacob, reluctantly, dropping the yellow slip on the white heap and surveying it ruefully. “Fifty!” echoed the Willoughby connection, feebly. Susan Willoughby, Jacob’s wife, was the first to regain her mental equilibrium. “You will write this evening, Jacob?” she questioned, with stony composure. “I will write this evening,” responded her husband, firmly. The bachelor Willoughby suddenly chuckled. The outraged connection stared at him in astonishment. “I--I was just thinking,” he giggled, “that economy doesn’t seem to be Jane’s strong point.” At its best, the Willoughby connection’s sense of humor was the reverse of keen, and the situation was not one, in their opinion, that invited levity. But whatever crushing blow threatened the frivolous member--and Mrs. Susan Willoughby and Miss Willoughby both looked primed--was happily averted by the opportune reappearance of the butler. “Dinner is served,” he announced, solemnly, and Jacob Willoughby sprang with alacrity to offer his arm to the most attractive of the female Willoughbys. “I will summon the bishop to wrestle with Jane,” announced Susan, magisterially, as she led the way to the dining room. And the connection realized that Jane had, indeed, become a problem. CHAPTER II. Jane balanced her spoon on the brim of the shell-like cup and smiled at Mr. Scott. “Yesterday, Billie, I received another of those Willoughby epistles--about my extravagance, you know.” “The idea of anybody thinking you extravagant,” murmured Mr. Scott, with an adoring glance. “Oh, as to that,” observed Jane, airily, “I admit I’m extravagant, but I’m purposely so. Listen, my child, and I’ll tell you the story of my life. But first let me put a drop more rum in your tea.” Mr. Scott held out his cup. “It does taste of tea,” he admitted. “And you know I’ve always cracked up the flavor of your--er--tea, Jane.” She dropped the rum out of a silver filigree bottle with an amethyst in the stopper.